/

Digitized by Google

Digitized by Google

COLLECTION

OF

BRITISH AUTHORS.

TAECHNITZ EDITION.

VOL. 1019.

OLDTOWN FOLKS BY H. BEECHER STOWE.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

Digitized by Google

TATJCHNITZ EDITION.

By the same Author,

UNCLE TOM’S CABIN 2 vols.

A KEY TO UNCLE TOm’s CABIN . . 2 vols.

2 vols.

THE MINISTER’S WOOING .... 1 VOl.

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

BY

H. BEECHER STOWE,

AUTHOR OF “UNCLE TOM'S CABIN,” ETC.

COPYRIGHT EDITION.

The Right of Translation is reserved.

Digitized by Google

1 ,%

Digitized by Google

PREFACE.

Gentle reader, — It is customary to omit prefaces. I beg
you to make an exception in my particular case; I have
something I really want to say. I have an object in this
book, more than the mere telling of a story, and you can
always judge of a book better if you compare it with the
author's object. My object is to interpret to the world the
New England life and character in that particular time of its
history which may be called the seminal period. I would
endeavour to show you New England in its seed-bed , before
the hot suns of modern progress had developed its sprouting
germs into the great trees of to-day.

New England has been to these United States what the
Dorian hive was to Greece. It has always been a capital
country to emigrate from, and North, South, East, and West
have been populated largely from New England , so that the
seed-bed of New England was the seed-bed of this great
American Republic, and of all that is likely to come of it.

New England people cannot be thus interpreted without
calling into view many grave considerations and necessitating
some serious thinking.

In doing this work, I have tried to make my mind as still
and passive as a looking-glass or a mountain lake, and then

VI

PREFACE.

to give you merely the images reflected there. I desire that
you should see the characteristic persons of those times, and
hear them talk; and sometimes I have taken an author’s
liberty of explaining their characters to you, and telling you
why they talked and lived as they did.

My studies for this object have been Pre-Raphaelite, —
taken from real characters, real scenes, and real incidents.
And some of those things in the story which may appear
most romantic and like fiction are simple renderings and
applications of facts.

Any one who may be curious enough to consult Rev.
Elias Nason’s book, called “Sir Charles Henry Frankland,
or Boston in the Colonial Times,” will there see a full de-
scription of the old manor-house which in this story is called
the Dench House. It was by that name I always heard it
spoken of in my boyhood.

In portraying the various characters which I have intro-
duced, I have tried to maintain the part simply of a sym-
pathetic spectator. I propose neither to teach nor preach
through them, any farther than any spectator of life is
preached to by what he sees of the workings of human
nature around him.

Though Calvinist, Arminian, High-Church Episcopalian,
sceptic, and simple believer all speak in their turn , 1 merely
listen, and endeavour to understand and faithfully represent
the inner life of each. I myself am but the observer and
reporter, seeing much, doubting much, questioning much,
and believing with all my heart in only a very few things. —
And so I take my leave of you.

HORACE HOLYOKE.

Digitized by Google

PREFACE

TO

THE ENGLISH AND LEIPZIG EDITION.

Since the author of this work first appeared before the
public , changes have occurred such as few are permitted to
see in a lifetime.

The whole of the mighty system of wrong and injustice,
of which “ Uncle Tom’s Cabin” was an imperfect shadow,
has passed away like a dream of the night. America stands
forth at this hour, in theory as well as in .practice, devoted
to liberty. That system of human slavery which seemed so
impregnable, supported by such a power of wealth and by
such political strength , has suddenly and in an hour broken
up , and dissolved , and passed away, and there is found no
more place for it.

In offering once more a book to friends in Europe, the
author is saddened by the remembrance how many in whom
it was her good fortune to find sympathetic readers in 1850
are gone from the hearths and homes of England to return
no more.

In every circle and rank of life she can recall those whose
sympathy and approval was dear to her, who are here no
more.

VIII

PREFACE.

\

Last in the list, not least, is the name of that illustrious
lady who stood forth for the cause of liberty and humanity
in an hour when the fate of that cause looked darkest and
most doubtful, and whose friendship was one of the dearest
treasures which England had to give.

Though her eye has for ever closed to earth, and she will
never read these lines , yet it is a melancholy pleasure to in-
scribe this book as an offering

TO THE BELOVED MEMORY
OF

THE DUCHESS OF SUTHERLAND.

Digitized by Google

CONTENTS

OF VOLUME I.

Page

CHAPTER I. Oldtown and the Minister II

— II. My Father 22

— III. My Grandmother 29

— IV. The Village Do-notiling 40

— V. The Old Meeting-house 53

— VI. Fire-light talks in my Grandmothers Kitchen . 79

— VII. Old Crab Smith 106

— VIII. Miss Asphyxia 120

— IX. Harry’s Firat Day’s Work 134

— X. Miss Asphyxia's System 140

— XT. The Criai8 155

— XII. The Lion's Mouth shut 162

— XIH. The Empty Bird’s Neat 170

— XIV. The Day in Fairy-land 175

— XV. The Old Manor-house . t T . . 190

— XVI. Sam Lawson’s Discoveries . , , . , , 201

— XVII. The Visit to the Haunted House .... 212

— XVIII. Tina’s Adoption 235

— XIX. Miss Mehitable’s Letter, and the Reply, giving

further Hints of the Story 251

X

CONTENTS OF VOLUME I.

\

Page

CHAPTER XX.

Miss Asphyxia goes in Pursuit , and my Grand-

mother gives her Views on Education

276

— XXI.

What is to be done with the Boy? .

293

- XXII.

Daily Living in Oldtown

308

- XXIII.

We take a Step up in the World ....

322

— XXIV.

We behold Grandeur . -

341

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

CHAPTER I.

Oldtown and the Minister.

It has always been a favourite idea of mine, that there is
so much of the human in every man , that the life of any one
individual, however obscure , if really and vividly perceived
in all its aspirations, struggles, failures, and successes, would
command the interest of all others. This is my only apology
for offering my life as an open page to the reading of the
public.

Besides this, however, every individual is part and parcel
of a great picture of the society in which he lives and acts,
and his life cannot be painted without reproducing the pic-
ture of the world he lived in; and it has appeared to me that
my life might recall the image and body of a period in New
England most peculiar and most interesting, the impress of
which is now rapidly fading away. I mean the ante-railroad
times, — the period when our own hard, rocky, sterile New
England was a sort of half Hebrew theocracy, half ultra-
democratic republic of little villages, separated by a pathless
ocean from all the civilisation and refinement of the Old
World, forgotten and unnoticed, and yet burning like live
coals under this obscurity with all the fervid activity of an
intense, newly-kindled, peculiar, and individual life.

My early life lies in one of these quiet little villages, — that
of Oldtown, in Massachusetts, It was as pretty a village as

12

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

ever laid itself down to rest on the. banks of a tranquil river.
The stream was one of those limpid children of the mountains,
whose brown, clear waters ripple with a soft yellow light over
many-coloured pebbles, now brawling and babbling on rocky
bottoms, dashing hither and thither in tiny cascades , throw-
ing white spray over green-mossed rocks, and then again
sweeping silently, with many a winding curve, through soft
green meadows , nursing on its bosom troops of water-lilies,
and bordering its banks with blue and white violets, snow-
flaked meadow-sweet, and wild iris. Hither and thither, in
the fertile tracts of meadow or upland through which this little
stream wound, were some two dozen farmhouses, hid in green
hollows, or perched on breezy hill tops*, while close along-
side of the river, at its widest and deepest part, ran one rustic
street thickly carpeted with short velvet green grass, where
stood the presiding buildings of the village.

First among these was the motherly meeting-house , with
its tall white spire , its ample court of sheds and stalls for the
shelter of the horses and the various farm-waggons which
came in to Sunday services. There was also the school-house,
the Academy, and Israel Scran’s store, where everything was
sold, from lioe-handles up to cambric needles, where the post-
office was kept, and where was a general exchange of news,
as the different farm- waggons stood hitched around the door,
and their owners spent a leisure moment in discussing politics
or theology from the top of codfish or mackerel barrels,
while their wives and daughters were shopping among the
dress goods and ribbons, on the other side of the store.
Next to the store was the tavern, — with a tall sign-post which
used to creak and flap in the summer winds, with a leisurely,
rich, easy sort of note of invitation, — a broad veranda in front,
, with benches, — an open tap-room, where great barrels of beer
were kept on draft, and a bar where the various articles pro-

OLDTOWN AND THE MINISTER. 13

scribed by the temperance society were in those days allowed
an open and respectable standing. This tavern veranda and
tap-room was another general exchange, not in those days held
in the ill repute of such resorts now. The minister himself,
in all the magnificence of his cocked hat and ample clerical
wig, with his gold-headed cane in his hand, would sometimes
step into the tap-room of a cold winter morning, and order a
mug of flip from obsequious Amaziah the host, and, while he
sipped it, would lecture with a severe gravity a few idle,
ragged fellows who were spending too much time in those
seductive precincts. The clergy in those days felt that they
never preached temperance with so warm a fervour as be-
tween the comfortable sips of a beverage of whose temperate
use they intended to be shining examples. The most vivid
image of respectability and majesty which a little boy born
in a Massachusetts village in those early days could form was
the minister. In the little theocracy which the Pilgrims
established in the wilderness, the ministry was the only order
of nobility. They were the only privileged class, and their
voice it was that decided ex cathedra on all questions both in
Church and State, from the choice of a Governor to that of
the district-school teacher.

Our minister, as I remember him, was one of the cleanest,
most gentlemanly, most well-bred of men , — never appearing
without all the decorums of silk stockings, shining knee and
shoe-buckles, well-brushed shoes, immaculately powdered
wig, out of which shone his clear, calm, serious face, like the
moon out of a fleecy cloud.

Oldtown was originally an Indian town, and one of the
most numerous and powerful of the Indian tribes had pos-
sessed the beautiful tracts of meadow and upland farms that
bordered the Sepaug River. Here the great apostle of the
Indians had established the first missionary enterprise among

14

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

them, under the patronage of a society in England for the
propagation of the Gospel in foreign parts; here he had
laboured and taught and prayed with a fervour which bowed
all hearts to his sway, and gathered from the sons of the
forest a church of devoted Christians. The harsh guttural
Indian language, in the fervent alembic of his loving study,
was melted into a written dialect; a Bible and hymn-book
and spelling-book seemed to ojDen a path to an Indian litera-
ture. He taught them agriculture, and many of the arts and
trades of civilised life. But he could not avert the doom
which seems to foreordain that those races shall dry up and
pass away with their native forests, as the brook dries up when
the pines and hemlocks which shaded its source are torn
away.

In my boyhood, three generations had passed since the
apostle died. The elms which two grateful Indian catechu-
mens had set out as little saplings either side of his gateway
were now two beautiful pillars , supporting each their firma-
ment of leafy boughs, and giving a grand air of scholarly
retirement to the plain, old-fashioned parsonage; but the
powerful Indian tribe had dwindled to a few scattered families,
living an uncertain and wandering life on the outskirts of the
thrift and civilisation of the whites.

Our minister was one of those cold, clear-cut, polished crys-
tals that are formed in the cooling down of society, after it,
has been melted and purified by a great enthusiasm. Nobody
can read Dr. Cotton Mather’s biography of the first ministers
of Massachusetts , without feeling that they were men whose
whole souls were in a state of fusion, by their conceptions of
an endless life; that the ruling forces which impelled them
were the sublimities of a world to come ; and that, if there be
such a thing possible as perfect faith in the eternal and in-

OLDTOWN AND THE MINISTER.

15

visible, and perfect loyalty to God and to conscience, these
men were pervaded by it.

More than this, many of them were men of a softened and
tender spirit, bowed by past afflictions, who had passed
through the refining fires of martyrdom, and came to this
country, counting not home or kindred dear to them, that
they might found a commonwealth for the beloved name and
honour of One who died for them. Christo et Ecclesiai , was
the seal with which they consecrated ail their life-work, from
the founding of Harvard College down to the district school
in every village. These men lived in the full spirit of him
who said, U I am crucified with Christ, nevertheless I live:
yet not I, but Christ liveth in me;” and the power of this
invisible and mighty love shed a softening charm over the
austere grandeur of their lives. They formed a common-
wealth where open vice was wellnigh impossible; where such
landmarks and boundaries and buttresses and breastworks
hedged in and defended the morality of a community, that to
go veiy far out of the way would require some considerable
ingenuity and enterprise.

The young men grew up grave and decorous through the
nursing of church, catechism, and college, all acting in one
line; and in due time many studious and quiet youths stepped,
in regular succession, from the college to the theological course,
and thence to the ministry, as their natural and appointed
work. They received the articles of faith as taught in their
catechism without dispute , and took their places calmly and
without opposition to assist in carrying on a society where
everything had been arranged to go under their direction,
and they were the recognised and appointed leaders and
governors.

The Rev. Mr.Lothrop had come of good ministerial blood
for generations back. His destination had always been for

I*

16 OLDTOWN FOLKS.

the pulpit. He was possessed of one of those calm, quiet,
sedate natures , to whom the temptations of turbulent nerves
or vehement passions are things utterly incomprehensible.

Now, however stringent and pronounced may be the forms '
in which one’s traditional faith may have been expressed , it
is certain that temperament gradually, and with irresistible
power, modifies one’s creed. Those features of a man’s pro-
fessed belief which are unsympathetic with his nature become
to his mind involved in a perpetual haze and cloud of disuse ;
while certain others , which are congenial , become vivid and
pronounced; and thus, practically, the whole faith of the man
changes without his ever being aware of the fact himself.

Parson Lothrop belonged to a numerous class in the third
generation of Massachusetts clergy, commonly called Armin-
ian, — men in whom this insensible change had been wrought
from the sharply-defined and pronounced Calvinism of the
early fathers. They were mostly scholarly, quiet men, of
calm and philosophic temperament, who, having from in-
fancy walked in all the traditions of a virtuous and pious
education , and passed from grade to grade of their progress
with irreproachable quiet and decorum, came to regard the
spiritual struggles and conflicts, the wrestlings and tears, the
fastings and temptations of their ancestors, with a secret
scepticism, — to dwell on moralities , virtues , and decorums,
rather than on those soul-stirring spiritual mysteries which
still stood forth unquestioned and uncontradicted in their
confessions of faith.

Parson Lothrop fulfilled with immaculate precision all the
proprieties exacted in his station. Oldtown having been
originally an Indian missionary station, an annual stipend
was paid the pastor of this town from a fund originally in-
vested in England for the conversion of the Indians ; and so
Parson Lothrop had the sounding-board of Eliot’s pulpit put

Digitized by Google

OLDTOWN AND THE MINISTER.

17

up over the great arm-chair in his study, and used to call
thither weekly the wandering remnants of Indian tribes to
be catechised. He did not, like his great predecessor, lecture
them on the original depravity of the heart, the need of a
radical and thorough regeneration by the Holy Spirit of God,
or the power of Jesus as a Saviour from sin*, but he talked to
them of the evil of drunkenness and lying and idleness , and
exhorted them to be temperate and industrious; and when
they, notwithstanding his exhortations , continued to lead an
unthrifty, wandering life, he calmly expressed his conviction
that they were children of the forest , a race destined to ex-
tinction with the progress of civilisation , but continued his
labours for them with automatic precision.

His Sunday sermons were well written specimens of the
purest and most elegant Addisonian English, and no mortal
could find fault with a word that was in them , as they were
sensible, rational, and religious, as far as they went. Indeed,
Mr. Lothrop was quite an elegant scholar and student in
literature, and more than once surprise had been expressed
to him that he should be willing to employ his abilities in so
obscure a town and for so inconsiderable a salary. His reply
was characteristic : u My salary is indeed small , but it is as
certain as the Bank of England, and retirement and quiet
give me leisure for study.”

He, however, mended his worldly prospects by a matri-
monial union with a widow lady of large property, from one
of the most aristocratic families of Boston. Mrs. Dorothea
Lueretia Dixwell was the widow of a Tory merchant, who,
by rare skill in trimming his boat to suit the times, had come
through the revolutionary war with a handsome property
unimpaired, which, dying shortly after, he left to his widow.
Mrs. Dixwell was in heart and soul an Englishwoman, an
adorer of church and king, a worshipper of aristocracy and
Oldtoicn Folks. I, 2

18

i

v

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

♦

all the powers that be. She owned a pew in King’s Chapel,
and clung more punctiliously than ever to her prayer-book,
when all other memorials of our connexion with the mother
country had departed.

Could it be thought that the elegant and rich widow would
smile on the suit of an obscure country Congregational
clergyman? Yet she did; and for it there were many good
reasons. Parson Lothrop was a stately, handsome, well-
proportioned man, and had the formal and ceremonious polite-
ness of a gentleman of the old school; and by family descent
Mrs. Dorothea’s remembrance could trace back his blood to
that of some very solid families among the English gentry;
and as there were no more noblemen to be had in America,
marrying a minister in those days was the next best thing to
it; and so Mrs. Dixwell became Mrs. Parson Lothrop, and
made a processional entrance into Oldtown in her own coach,
and came therein to church the first Sunday after her mar-
riage, in all the pomp of a white brocade, with silver flowers
on it of life-size, and white satin slippers with heels two
inches high. This was a great grace to show to a Congrega-
tional church, but Mrs. Lothrop knew the duty of a wife, and
conformed to it heroically. Nor was Parson Lothrop un-
mindful of the courtesies of a husband in this matrimonial
treaty, for it was stipulated and agreed that Madam Lothrop
should have full liberty to observe in her own proper person
all the festivals and fasts of the Church of England , should
be excused from all company, and allowed to keep the se-
clusion of her own apartment, on Good Friday, and should
proceed immediately thereafter in her own coach to Boston,
to be present at the Easter services in King’s Chapel. The
same procession to Boston in her own coach took place also
on Whitsunday and Christmas. Moreover she decked her
house with green boughs and made mince-pies at Christ-

OLDTOWN AND THE MINISTER.

19

mas time, and in short conducted her housekeeping in all
respects as a zealous member of the Church of England
ought.

In those days of New England, the minister and his wife
were considered the temporal and spiritual superiors of every-
body in the parish. The idea which has since gained ground
of regarding the minister and his family as a sort of stipend-
iary attachment and hired officials of the parish , to be over-
looked, schooled, advised, rebuked, and chastened by every
deacon and deacon’s wife or rich and influential parishioner,
had not then arisen. Parson Lothrop was so calmly awful
in his sense of his own position and authority, that it would
have been a sight worth seeing to witness any of his parish
coming to him, as deacons and influential parishioners now-
a-days feel at liberty to come to their minister, with sugges-
tions and admonitions. Ills manner was ever gracious and
affable , as of a man who habitually surveys every one from
above, and is disposed to listen with indulgent courtesy, and
has advice in reserve for all seekers ; but there was not the
slightest shadow of anything which encouraged the most pre-
suming to offer counsel in return. And so the marriage with
the rich Ejfiscopal widow, her processional entry into Old-
town, the coach and outriders, the brocade and satin slippers,
were all submitted to on the part of the Oldtown people with-
out a murmur.

The fact is, that the parson himself felt within his veins the
traditional promptings of a far-off church-and-king ancestry,
and relished with a calm delight a solemn trot to the meeting-
house behind a pair of fat, decorous, old family horses, with
a black coachman in livery on the box. It struck him as
sensible and becoming. So also he liked a sideboard loaded
with massive family plate, warmed up with the ruby hues of
old wines of fifty years’ ripening , gleaming through crystal

2*

20

OLDTOWH FOLKS. ,

decanters, and well-trained man-servants and maid-servants,
through whom his wig, his shoes, and all'his mortal belong-
ings, received daily and suitable care. He was to Mrs.
Dorothea the most deferential of husbands, always rising with
stately courtesy to offer her a chair when she entered an
apartment, and hastening to open the door for her if she
wished to pass out, and passing every morning and evening
the formal gallantries and inquiries in regard to her health
and well-being which he felt that her state and condition re-
quired.

Fancy if you can the magnificent distance at which this
sublime couple stood above a little ten-year-old boy, who
wore a blue checked apron, and every day pattered barefoot
after the cows, and who, at the time this story of myself
begins, had just, by reaching up on his little bare tiptoes,
struck the great black knocker on their front door.

The door was opened by a stately black servant, who had
about him an indistinct and yet perceptible atmosphere of
ministerial gravity and dignity, looking like a black doctor
of divinity.

“Is Mr. Lothrop at home? ” I said, blushing to the roots
of my hair.

“Yes, sonny,” said the black, condescendingly.

“Won’t you please tell him father’s dying, and mother
wants him to come quick?” and with that, what with awe,
and what with grief, I burst into tears.

The kind-hearted black relaxed from his majesty at once,
and said: “Lord bress yer soul! why, don’t cry now, honey,
and I’ll jes’ call missis;” — and in fact, before I knew it, he
had opened the parlour door, and ushered me into the august
presence of Lady Lothrop, as she used to be familiarly called
in our village.

She was a tall, thin, sallow woman, looking very much

Digitized by Google

OLDXOWN AND THE MINISTER.

21

like those portraits by Copley that still adorn some old houses
in Boston; but she had a gentle voice, and a compassionate,
womanly way with her. She comforted me with a cake, which
she drew from the closet in the sideboard; decanted some
very choice old wine into a bottle , which she said I was to
carry to my mother, and be sure and tell her to take a little
of it herself. She also desired me to give her a small book
which she had found of use in times of affliction, called “The
Mourner’s Companion,” consisting mainly of choice selections
from the English Book of Common Prayer.

When the minister came into the room, I saw that she
gave a conjugal touch to the snowy plaited frill of his ruffled
shirt, and a thoughtful insjDection to the wide linen cambric
frills which set off his well-formed hand, and which were a
little discomposed by rubbing over his writing table,— nay,
even upon one of them a small stain of ink was visible, as the
minister, unknown to himself, had drawn his ruffles over an
undried jjortion of his next Sunday’s sermon.

“Dinah must attend to this,” she said; “here’s a spot re-
quiring salts of lemon; and, my dear,” she said, in an in-
sinuating tone, holding out a richly-bound velvet prayer-book,
“would you not like to read our service for the Visitation of
the Sick, — it is so excellent.”

“I am well aware of that, my love,” said the minister,
repelling her prayer-book with a gentle stateliness, “but I
assure you, Dorothea, it would not do, — no, it would not do.”

I thought the good lady sighed as her husband left the
house , and looked longingly after him through the window
as he walked down the yard. She probably consoled herself
with the reflection that one could not have everything, and
that her spouse, if not in the Established Church of England,
was every way fitted to adorn it had he only been there.

22

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

\

CHAPTER II.

My Father.

My good reader, it must sometimes have fallen under your
observation that there is a class of men who go through life
under a cloud, for no other reason than that, being bom with
the nature of gentlemen , they are nevertheless poor. Such
men generally live under a sense of the dissatisfaction and
rebuke of our good mother world; and yet it is easy to see
all the while that even a moderate competence would at any
moment turn their faults into virtues, and make them in
everybody’s opinion model characters.

Now you know there are plants to whom poor soil or rich
soil seems to make no manner of difference. Your mullein
and your burdock do admirably on a gravelly hillside , and
admirably in rich garden soil. Nothing comes amiss with
them. But take a saffrano rose or a hyacinth and turn it out
to shift for itself by the roadside , and it soon dwindles and
pines , and loses its colour and shape , till everybody thinks
such a wretched, ragged specimen of vegetation had better
be out of the world than in it.

From all I remember of my poor father, he had the or-
ganisation and tastes of a scholar and a gentleman; but he
was born the son of a poor widow, who hardly knew from week
to week where the few hard-earned dollars were to come from
which kept her and her boy in the very plainest food and
clothing. So she thought herself happy when she apprenticed
him to a paper-maker. Thence he had fought his way up
with his little boy hands towards what to him was light and
life, — an education. Harvard College, to his eyes, was like
the distant vision of the New Jerusalem to the Christian.
Thither he aspired , thither he meant to go. Through many

MY FATHER.

23

a self-denial, many an hour of toil,— studying his Latin gram-
mar by night in the paper-mill , saving his odd pennies , and
buying book after book , and treasuring each one as a mine
of wealth, — he went on, till finally he gained enough of a
standing to teach, first the common school, and then the
Academy.

While he was teacher of the Academy he made his first
false step , which was a false step only because he was poor,
— he fell in love with my mother. If he had been well to do
in the world, everybody would have said that it was the most
natural and praiseworthy thing possible. It was some ex-
tenuation of his fault that my poor mother was very pretty
and attractive, — she was in fact , one of my father’s prettiest
scholars. He saw her daily, and so the folly grew upon him,
till he was ready to sacrifice his life’s object, and consent to
be all his days a poor academy teacher in Oldtown , that he
might marry her.

One must be very much of a woman for whom a man can
sacrifice the deepest purpose of his life without awaking to
regret it. I do not say that my father did so; and yet I could
see, from the earliest of my recollection, that ours was a house-
hold clouded by suppressed regrets , as well as embarrassed
by real wants.

My mother was one of those bright, fair, delicate New
England girls who remind us of the shell-pink , of the wood-
anemone, or the fragile wind-flower; and every one must
remember how jauntily they toss their gay little heads as
they grow in their own mossy dells, at the root of old oaks or
beeches, but how quickly they become withered and be-
draggled when we gather them.

My mother’s gaiety of animal spirits, her sparkle and
vivacity, all went with the first year of marriage. The cares
of housekeeping, the sicknesses of maternity and nursing,

Digitized by Google

24

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

drained her dry of all that was bright and attractive; and
my only recollections of her are of a little quiet, faded,
mournful woman, who looked on my birth and that of my
brother Bill as the greatest of possible misfortunes, and took
care of us with a discouraged patience, more as if she pitied
us for being born than as if she loved us.

My father seemed to regard her with a half-remorseful
tenderness , as he strove by extra reading and study to make
up for the loss of that education the prospect of wliich he
had sacrificed in his marriage. In common with a great
many scholars of that day and of this, he ignored his body
altogether, and tasked and strained his brain with night
studies till his health sank under it; and consumption, which
in New England stands ever waiting for victims , took his cold
hand in hers, and led him quietly but irresistibly downward.

Such , to this moment , was my father’s history ; and you
will see the truth of what I have been saying, — that a modest
little property would have changed all his faults and mistakes
into proprieties and virtues.

He had been sick so long, so very long, it seemed to my
child-mind! and now there was approaching him that dark
shadow so terrible to flesh and heart, in whose dimness every
one feels an instinctive longing for aid. That something must
be done for the dying to prepare them for their last lonesome
journey is a strong instinct of every soul; and I had heard
my mother pathetically urging my father that morning to
send for the minister.

“ 'What good will it do, Susy ?” had been his answer, given
with a sort of weary despondence; but still he had assented,
and I had gone eagerly to bring him.

I was, for my part, strong in faith. I wanted to do some-
thing for my father, and I felt certain that the minister would
know what was the right thing; and when I set forth with

. MY FATHER.

'25

him , in his full panoply, — wig and ruffles and gold-headed
cane, — I felt somehow as if the ark of the covenant was
moving down the street to our house.

My mother met the minister at the door, with tears yet
undried in her eyes , and responded in the fullest manner to
the somewhat stately, but yet gracious inquiries which he
made as to my father’s health and condition, and thanked
him for the kindly messages and gifts of Lady Lotkrop,
which I had brought.

Then he was shown into the sick-room. My father was
lying propped up by pillows , and with the bright flush of his
afternoon fever on his cheeks. He was always a handsome
man, fastidious about his person and belongings; and as he
lay with his long thin hands folded together over the bed-
clothes, his hair clinging in damp curls round his high white
forehead, and his large, clear hazel eyes kindled with an un-
natural brightness , he formed on my childish memory a pic-
ture that will never fade. There was in his eyes at this
moment that peculiar look of suffering which I have some-
times seen in the eyes of wounded birds or dying animals,
— something that spoke of a quiet, unutterable anguish.

My father had been not only a scholar, but a thinker, —
one of those silent, peculiar natures whose thoughts and
reasonings too often wander up and down the track of com-
monly received opinion, as Noah’s dove of old, without finding
rest for the sole of their foot. When a mind like this is
approaching the confines of the eternal unknown, there is
often a conflict of thought and emotion, the utterance of
which to a receptive and sympathising soul might bring reUef.
Something there was of intense yearning and inquiry in the
first glance he threw on the minister, and then it changed to
one of weary languor. With the quick spiritual instincts of
that last dying hour, he had seen into the soul of the man, —

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

26

that there was nothing there for him. Even the gold-headed
cane was not the rod and staff for him in the dark valley.

There was, in fact, something in the tranquil, calm, un-
pathetie nature of that good man, which rendered him pecu-
liarly inapt to enter into the secret chamber of souls that
struggle and suffer and doubt. He had a nature so evenly
balanced , his course in life had been so quiet and unruffled,
his speculations and doubts had been of so philosophical and
tranquil a kind , that he was not in the least fitted to become
father confessor to a sick and wounded spirit.

His nature was one that inclined to certain stately form-
alities and proprieties; and although he had, in accordance
with his station in the Congregational Church , put from him
the forms of the Church of England, and was supposed to
rely on the extemporaneous movements of the hour, his de-
votional exercises, nevertheless, had as much a stereotype
form as if they had been printed in a book. We boys always
knew when the time for certain familiar phrases and ex-
pressions would occur in his Sunday morning prayer, and
exactly the welcome words which heralded the close of the
afternoon exercise.

I remember now, as he knelt by my father’s bedside, how
far off and distant the usual opening formula of his prayer
made the Great Helper to appear. “Supremely great, in-
finitely glorious, and ever-blessed God,” it said, “grant that
we may suitably realise the infinite distance between us,
worms of the dust, and Thy divine majesty.”

I was gazing earnestly at my father, as he lay with his
bright, yearning, troubled eyes looking out into the misty
shadows of the eternal world, and I saw him close them
wearily , and open them again , with an expression of quiet
endurance. The infinite distance was a thing that he

MY FATHER.

27

realised only too well ; but who should tell him of an infinite
nearness by which those who are far off are made nigh?

After the prayer, the minister expressed the hope that my
father would be resigned to the decrees of infinite wisdom,
and my father languidly assented; and then, with a ministerial
benediction , the whole stately apparition of ghostly aid and
comfort departed from our house.

One thing, at all events, had been gained, — my father had
had the minister and been prayed with, and nobody in Old-
town could say that everything had not been properly
done , according to the code of spiritual etiquette generally
established. For our town, like other little places, always
kept a wide-awake eye on the goings and doings of her
children. Oldtown had had its own opinion of my father for
a great while, and expressed it freely in tea-drinkings , quilt-
ings, at the store, and at the tavern. If Oldtown’s advice
had been asked, there were a hundred things that he did
which would have been left undone , and a hundred things
done which he did not do. Oldtown knew just whom he
ought to have married instead of marrying my mother, and
was certain he could have had her too. Oldtown knew just
how and when he might have made himself a rich man , and
didn’t. Oldtown knew exactly when, how, and why he
caught the cold that set him into a consumption , and what
he ought to have taken to cure it, and didn’t. And now he
was, so to speak, dying under a cloud, just as Oldtown al-
ways knew he would. But one thing was certain, and Old-
town was glad to hear of it, — he wasn’t an infidel, as had
been at different times insinuated, for he had had the minister
and been prayed with; and so, though he never had joined
the church, Oldtown indulged some hope of his hereafter.

When the minister was gone, my father said, with a weary
smile, “There, Susy dear, I hope you are satisfied now.

Digitized by Google

28

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

My poor child,” he added, gently drawing her to sit down by
him, and looking at her with the strange, solemn dispas-
sionateness of dying people , who already begin to feel that
they are of another sphere, — “my poor dear little girl! You
were so pretty and so gay! I did you a great wrong in mar-
rying you.”

“Oh don’t say that, Horace!” said my mother.

“It’s true, though,” said my father. “ With a richer and
more prosperous man, you might have been blooming and
happy yet. And this poor little man,” said my father,
stroking my head, — “ perhaps fate may have something better
in store for him. If I had had but the ghost of a chance,
such as some men have, — some who do not value it, who
only throw it away, — I might have been something. I had
it in me; but no one will ever know it now. My life is a
miserable, disgusting failure. Burn all my papers, Susy.
Promise me that.”

“I will do just what you say, Horace.”

“And, Susy, when I am gone, don’t let all the old gossips
of Oldtown come to croak and croon over me, and make their
stupid remarks on my helpless body. I hate country funerals.
Don’t make a vulgar show of me for their staring curiosity.
Death is dreary enough at best, but I never could see any
sense in aggravating its horrors by stupid funeral customs.
Instead of dressing me in those ghostly, unnatural grave-
clothes that people seem to delight in, just let me be buried
in my clothes , and let the last look my poor children have
of me be as natural and familiar as possible. The last look
of the dead ought to be sacred to one’s friends alone. Pro-
mise now, Susy,” he said earnestly, — “promise to do as
I say.”

“0 Horace, I do promise! I promise to do all you say.
You know I always have.”

♦

MY GRANDMOTHER.

29

“Yes, poor dear child, you have; you have been only too
good for me.”

“0 Horace, how can you say so!” and my poor mother
fell on my father’s neck in a paroxysm of weeping.

But his great, bright eyes gathered no tears; they were
fixed in an awful stillness. “My darling, you must not,” he
said tenderly, but with no answering emotion. “Calm your-
self. And now, dear, as I am sure that to-morrow I shall not
be with you , you must send for your mother to be with you
to-night. You know she will come.”

“Father,” said I earnestly, “where are you going?”

“Where?” said he, looking at me with his clear, mournful
eyes. “ God knows, my son. I do not. It ought to be enough
for me that God does know.”

CHAPTER III.

My Grandmother.

“Now, Horace,” said my mother, “you must run right
up to your grandfather’s , and tell your grandmother to come
down and stay with us to-night; and you and Bill must stay
there.”

Bill, my brother, was a year or two younger than I was;
far more healthy, and consequently, perhaps, far more noisy.
At any rate , my mother was generally only too glad to give
her consent to his going anywhere of a leisure afternoon
which would keep him out of the house , while I was always
retained as her own special waiter and messenger.

My father had a partiality for me, because I was early an
apt reader, and was fond of the quiet of his study and his
books. He used to take pride and pleasure in hearing me
read, which I did with more fluency and understanding than
many children of twice my age; and thus it happened that,

30 .

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

while Bill was off roaming in the woods this sunny autumn
afternoon , I was the attendant and waiter in the sick-room.
My little soul was oppressed and sorrowful , and so the mes-
sage that sent me to my grandmother was a very welcome
one, for my grandmother was, in my view, a tower of strength
and deliverance. My mother was, as I have said, a frail,
mournful, little, discouraged woman*, but my grandmother
belonged to that tribe of strong-backed, energetic, martial
mothers in Israel, who brought to our life in America the
vigorous bone and muscle and hearty blood of the yeomanry
of Old England. She was a valiant old soul , who fearlessly
took any bull in life by the horns , and was ready to shake
him into decorum.

My grandfather, a well-to-do farmer, was one of the chief
magnates of the village, and carried on a large farm and cer-
tain mills at the other end of it. The great old-fashioned
farmhouse where they lived was at some distance from my
father’s cottage, right on the banks of that brown, sparkling,
clear stream I have spoken of.

My grandfather was a serene, moderate, quiet man, up-
ward of sixty, with an affable word and a smile for every-
body, — a man of easy habits, never discomposed, and never
in a hurry, — who had a comfortable faith that somehow or
other the affairs of this world in general , and his own in par-
ticular, will turn out all right, without much seeing to on his
part.

My grandmother, on the contrary, was one of those wide-
awake, earnest, active natures, whose days were hardly ever
long enough for all that she felt needed to be done and at-
tended to. She had very positive opinions on every subject,
and was not at all backward in the forcible and vigorous
expression of them; and evidently considering the apostolic
gift of exhortation as having come straight down to her, she

Digitized by Google

MY GRANDMOTHER.

31

failed not to use it for the benefit of all whom it might con-
cern.

Oldtown had in many respects a peculiar sort of society.
The Indian tribe that once had been settled in its vicinity,
had left upon the place the tradition of a sort of wandering,
gipsy, tramping life, so that there was in the town an unusual
number of that roving, uncertain class of people, who are
always falling into want, and needing to be helped, hanging
like a tattered fringe on the thrifty and well-kept petticoat of
New England society.

The traditions of tenderness, pity, and indulgence which
the apostle Eliot had inwrought into the people of his day in
regard to the Indians, had descended through all the families,
and given to that roving people certain established rights in
every household, which in those days no one ever thought of
disowning. The wandering Indian was never denied a good
meal, a seat by the kitchen fire, a mug of cider, and a bed in
the barn. My grandfather, out of his ample apple-orchard,
always made one hogshead of cider which was called the
Indian hogshead, and which was known to be always on tap
for them; and my grandmother not only gave them food, but
more than once would provide them with blankets, and allow
them to lie down and sleep by her great kitchen fire. In
those days New England was such a well- watched , and
schooled, and catechised community, and so innocent in the
general tone of its society', that in the rural villages no one
ever locked the house doors of a night. I have lain awake
many a night hearing the notes of the whippoorwills and the
frogs , and listening to the sighing of the breeze , as it came
through the great wide-open front-door of the house, and
swept up the staircase. Nobody ever thought of being
afraid that the tramper whom he left asleep on the kitchen
floor would rouse up in the night and rob the house. In fact,

32

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

the poor vagrants were themselves tolerably innocent, not
being guilty of very many sins darker than occasional
drunkenness and habitual unthrift. They were a simple,
silly, jolly set of rovers, partly Indian and partly whites, who
had fallen into Indian habits, who told stories, made baskets,
drank cider, and raised puppies, of which they generally
carried a supply in their wanderings , and from which came
forth in due time an ample supply of those yellow dogs of
old, one of whom wa3 a standing member of every well-
regulated New England family. Your yellow dog had an im-
portant part to act in life, as much as any of his masters.
He lay in the kitchen door and barked properly at everything
that went by. He went out with the children when they went
roving in the woods on Saturday afternoon , and was always
on hand with a sober face to patter on his four solemn paws
behind the farm- waggon as it went to meeting, of a Sunday
morning. And in meeting, who can say what an infinite fund
of consolation their yellow honest faces and great soft eyes
were to the children tired of the sermon, but greatly consoled
by getting a sly opportunity to stroke Bose’s yellow back!
How many little eyes twinkled sympathetically through the
slats of the high-backed pews , as the tick of their paws up
and down the broad aisle announced that they were treating
themselves to that meditative locomotion allowed • to good
dogs. in sermon-time!

Surrounded by just such a community as I have described,
my grandmother’s gifts never became rusty for want of
exercise. Somebody always needed straightening up and
attending to. Somebody was to be exhorted, rebuked, or
admonished, with all long-suffering and doctrine; and it
was cheering to behold, after years of labours that had ap-
peared to produce no very brilliant results on her disciples,
how hale and vigorous her faith yet remained in the power

Digitized by Google

MY GRANDMOTHER.

33

of talking to people. She seemed to consider that evil-doers
fell into sins and evils of all sorts merely for want of somebody
to talk to them, and would fly at some poor, idle, loafing,
shiftless object who staggered past her house from the
tavern, with the same earnestness and zeal for the fortieth
time as if she had not exhorted him vainly for the thirty-nine
before.

In fact, on this very Saturday afternoon , as I was coming
down the hill , whence I could see the mill and farmhouse , I
caught sight of her standing in the door, with cap-border
erect, and vigorous gesticulation, upbraiding a poor miserable
dog commonly called Uncle Epli , who stood swaying on the
bridge, holding himself up by the rails with drunken gravity,
only answering her expostulations by shaking his trembling
fist at her, irreverently replying in every pause of her expos-
tulation, “You — darned — old sheep you!”

“I do wonder now, mother, that you can’t let Uncle
Eph alone,” said my Aunt Lois, who was washing up the
kitchen floor behind her. “What earthly good does it
do to be talking to him? He always has drank, and always
will.”

“I can’t help it,” quoth my grandmother; “it’s a shame
to him, and his wife lying there down with rheumatism. I
don’t see how folks can do so.”

“And I don’t see as it’s any of our business,” said Aunt
Lois. “What is it to us? We are not our brother’s
keeper.”

“Well, it was Cain that said that to begin with,” said my
grandmother; “and I think it’s the spirit of Cain not to care
what becomes of our neighbours!”

“I can’t help it if it is. I don’t see the use of fussing and
caring about what you can’t help. But there comes Horace
Holyoke, to be sure. I suppose, mother, you’re sent for;

Qldtonvn Folks , I % -3

34

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

I’ve been expecting it all along. Stand still there!” she
called to me as I approached the door, “and don’t come in to
track my floor.”

I stood without the door, therefore, and delivered my
message; and my grandmother promptly turned into her own
bedroom, adjoining the kitchen, to make herself ready to go.
I stood without the door, humbly waiting Aunt Lois’s per-
mission to let me come into the house.

“Well,” said Aunt Lois, “I suppose we’ve got to have
both boys down here to-night. They’ve got to come here , I
suppose, and we may as well have ’em first as last. It’s just
what I told Susy, when she would marry Horace Holyoke.
I saw it just as plain as I see it now, that we should have to
take care of ’em. It’s aggravating, because Susy neglected
her opportunities. She might have been Mrs. Captain Shaw-
mut, and had her carriage and horses, if she’d only been a
mind to.”

“But,” said my Aunt Keziah, who sat by the chimney,
knitting, — “but if she couldn’t love Captain Shawmut, and

did love Horace Holyoke ”

“Fiddlestick about that. Susy would ’a’ loved him well
enough if she’d ’a’ married him. She’d ’a’ loved anybody
that she married well enough, — she’s one of the kind; and
he’s turned out a very rich man, just as I told her. Susy
was the only handsome one in our family, and she might
have done something with herself if she’d had sense.”

“For my part,” said Aunt Keziah, “I can’t blame people
for following their hearts. I never saw the money yet that
would ’a’ tempted me to many the man I didn’t love.”

Poor Aunt Keziah had the reputation of being, on the
whole, about the homeliest woman in Oldtown. She was
fat and ill-shapen and clumsy, with a pale , greenish tinge to
her complexion , watery , whitish- blue eyes , very rough tliip.

%

Digitized by Google

MY GRANDMOTHER.

35

liair, and ragged, scrubby eyebrows. Nature had been
peculiarly unkind to her; but far within her ill-favoured
body she had the most exalted and romantic conceptions.
She was fond of reading Young’s “Night Thoughts,” Mrs.
Kowe’s “Meditations,” and Sir Charles Grandison, and always
came out strong on the immaterial and sentimental side ; of
eveiy question. She had the most exalted ideas of a lofty,
disinterested devotion’, which she, poor soul! kept always
simmering on a secret altar, ready to bestow on some ideal
hero, if ever he should call for it. But, alas! her want of
external graces prevented any such application. The prin-
cess was enchanted behind a hedge of ragged and unsightly
thorns.

She had been my mother’s aid and confidante in her love
affair, and was therefore regarded with a suppressed dis-
pleasure by Aunt Lois, who rejoined, smartly, “I don’t
think, Kezzy, that you are likely to be tempted with offers of
any sort; but Susy did have ’em, — plenty of ’em, — and took
Horace Holyoke when she might ’a’ done better. Conse-
quence is , we’ve got to take her and her children home and
take care of ’em. It’s just our luck. Your poor folks are
the ones that are sure to have children , — the less they have
to give ’em, the more they have. I think, for my part, that
people that can’t provide for children ought not to have ’em.
Susy’s no more fit to bring up those boys than a white kitten.
There never was a great deal to Susy,” added Aunt Lois, re-
flectively, as, having finished the ablution of the floor, she
took the dish of white sand to sand it.

“Well, for my part,” said Aunt Kezzy, “I don’t blame
Susy a mite. Horace Holyoke was a handsome man, and the
Holyokes are a good family. Why, his grandfather was a
minister, and Horace certainly was a man of talents. Parson
Lothrop said, if he’d ’a’ had early advantages, there were

3 *

/

36 OLDTOWN FOLKS.

few men would have surpassed him. If he’d only been able
to go to college.”

“And why wasn’t he able to go to college? Because he
must needs get married. Now , when people set out to do a
thing , I like to see ’em do it. If he’d ’a’ let Susy alone and
gone to college , I daresay he might have been distinguished,
and all that. I wouldn’t have had the least objection. But
no , nothing would do but he must get married , and have two
boys , and then study himself into his grave, and leave ’em to
us to take care of.”

“Well now, Lois,” said my grandmother, coming out with
her bonnet on, and her gold-headed cane in her hand, “if I
were you , I wouldn’t talk so. What do you always want to
fight Providence for?”

“Providence!” said my Aunt Lois, with a sniff. “I don’t
call it Providence. I guess, if folks would behave themselves,
Providence would let them alone.”

“ Why, everything is ordered and foreordained,” said Aunt
Keziah.

“Besides that,” said my grandmother, setting down her
stick hard on the floor, “there’s no use in such talk, Lois.
What’s done’s done ; and if the Lord let it be done , we may.
We can’t always make people do as we would. There’s no
use in being dragged through the woiM like a dog under a
cart , hanging back and yelping. What we must do , we may
as well do willingly, — as well walk as be dragged. Now we’ve
got Susy and her children to take care of, and let’s do it.
They ’ve got to come here, and they shall come, — should
come if there were forty-eleven more of them than there be, —
so now you just shut up.”

“Who said they shouldn’t come?” said Aunt Lois. “I
want to know now if I haven’t moved out of the front room
and gone into the little back chamber , and scoured up every

Digitized by Google

MY GRANDMOTHER.

37

inch of that front-room chamber on my hands and knees,
and brought down the old tiundle-bed out of the garret and
cleaned it up , on purpose to be all ready for Susy and those
children. If I haven’t worked hard for them, I ’d like to have
any one tell me; and I don’t see, for my part, why I should
be scolded.”

“ She wasn’t scolding you, Lois,” said Aunt Keziah pacifi-
cally.

“She was, too; and I never open my mouth,” said Lois, in
an aggrieved tone, “that you all don’t come down on me.
I’m sure I don’t see the harm of wishing Susy had married
a man that could ’a’ provided for her; but some folks feel so
rich , nothing comes amiss with ’em. I suppose we are able
to send both boys to college , and keep ’em like gentlemen,
ar’n’t we?”

My grandmother had not had the benefit of this last volley,
as she prudently left the house the moment she had de-
livered herself of her reproof to Aunt Lois.

I was listening at the door with a troubled spirit. Gather-
ing from the conversation that my father and mother, some-
how , had been improperly conducted people , and that I and
my brother Bill had no business to have been born , and that
our presence on the earth was, somehow or other, of the
nature of an impertinence , making everybody a vast deal of
trouble. I could not bear to go in; and as I saw my grand-
mother’s stately steppings in the distance , I ran after her as
fast as my little bare feet could patter, and seized fast hold
of her gown with the same feeling that makes a chicken run
under a hen.

“Why, Horace,” said my grandmother, “why didn’t you
stay down at the house?”

“I didn’t want to, grandma; please let me go with you.”

“You mustn’t mind Aunt Lois’s talk, — she means well.”

38

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

I snuffled and persisted, and so had my own way, for my
grandmother was as soft-hearted to children as any of the
meekest of the tribe who bear that revered name; and so she
didn’t mind it that 1 slid back into the shadows of my father’s
room, under cover of her ample skirts, and sat down discon-
solate in a dark corner.

My grandmother brought to the sick-room a heavier re-
sponsibility than any mere earthly interest could have laid on
her. With all her soul, which was a very large one, she was
an earnest Puritan Calvinist. She had been nourished in the
sayings and traditions of the Mathers and the Eliots, and all
the first generation of the saints who had possessed Massa-
chusetts. To these she had added the earnest study of the
writings of Edwards and Bellamy , and others of those brave
* old thinkers who had broken up the crust of formalism and
mechanical piety that was rapidly forming over the New
England mind.

My remembrances of her are always as a reader. In her
private chamber was always a table covered with books; and
though performing personally the greater share of the labours
of a large family, she never failed to have her quiet hour
every afternoon for reading. History and biography she
delighted in , but she followed with a keen relish the mazes
of theology.

During the days of my father’s health and vigour, he had
one of those erratic, combative minds that delight in running
logical tilts against received opinions , and was skilled in
finding the weak point in all assertions. My grandmother,
who believed with heart and soul and life-blood everything
that she believed at all , had more than once been worsted by
him in arguments where her inconsiderate heat outrun her .
logic. These remembrances had pressed heavily on her soul
during the time of his sickness , and she had more than once

Digitized by Google

MY GRANDMOTHER.

39

earnestly sought to bring him to her ways of thinking, — ways
which to her view were the only possible or safe ones; but
during his illness he had put such conversation from him with
the quick , irritable impatience of a sore and wounded spirit.

On some natures theology operates as a subtle poison ; and
the New England theology in particular, with its intense clear-
ness, its sharp-cut crystalline edges and needles of thought,
has had in a peculiar degree the power of lacerating the nerves
of the soul, and producing strange states of morbid horror
and repulsion. The great unanswerable questions which
must perplex every thinking soul that awakes to conscious-
ness in this life are there posed with the severest and most
appalling distinctness. These awful questions underlie all
religions; they belong as much to Deism as to the strictest
orthodoxy, — in fact, they are a part of human perception and
consciousness , since it cannot be denied that Nature in her
teaching is a more tremendous and inexorable Calvinist than
the Cambridge Platform or any other platform that ever was
invented.

But in New England society, where all poetic forms, all
the draperies and accessories of religious ritual , have been
rigidly and unsparingly retrenched, there was nothing be-
tween the soul and these austere and terrible problems ; it was
constantly and severely brought face to face with their infinite
mystery. When my grandmother came into the room, it was
with an evident and deep emotion working in her strong but
plain features. She came up to the bed and grasped my
father’s hand earnestly.

“Well, mother,” he said, “my time is come, and I have
sent for you to put Susy and the children into your hands.”

“I’ll take ’em and welcome, — you know that,” said my
grandmother heartily.

“God bless you, mother, — I do know it,” he said: “but do

40

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

have a special eye on poor little Horace. He has just my
passion for books and study; and if he could be helped to
get an education , he might do what I have failed to do. I
leave him my books, — you will try and help him, mother?”
“Yes, my son, I will: but oh, my son, my son!” she added,
with trembling eagerness, “how is it with you now? Are you
prepared for this great change?”

“ Mother,” he said, in a solemn voice, yet speaking with a
great effort, “no sane man ever comes to my age, and to this
place where I lie , without thinking a great deal on all these
things. I have thought, — God knows how earnestly, — but I
cannot talk of it. We see through J a glass darkly here.
There perhaps we shall see clearly. You must be content
to leave me where I leave myself, — in the hands of my Crea-
tor. He can do no wrong.”

CHAPTER IV.

Tho Village Do-nothing.

“Wall naow, Horace, don’t ye cry so. Why, I’m railly
concerned for ye. Why, don’t you s’pose your dady’s better
off? Why, 6artin, I do. Don’t cry, there’s a good boy.
I’ll give ye my jack-knife now.”

This was addressed to me the day after my father’s death,
while the preparations for the funeral hung like a pall over
the house, and the terror of the last cold mystery, the tears
of my mother, and a sort of bustling dreariness on the part
of my aunts and grandmother, all conspired to bear down
on my childish nerves with fearful power. It was a doctrine
of those good old times , no less than of many in our present
days , that a house invaded by death should be made as for-
lorn as hands could make it. It should be rendered as cold
and stiff, as unnatural, as dead and corpse-like as possible,

THE VILLAGE DO-NOTHING.

41

by closed shutters, looking-glasses pinned up in wliite sheets,
and the locking up and hiding out of sight of any pleasant
little familiar object which would be thought out of place in
a sepulchre. This work had been driven through with un-
sparing vigour by Aunt Lois, who looked like one of the
Fates as she remorselessly cleared away cveiy little familial’
object belonging to my father, and reduced every room to the
shrouded stillness of a well-kept tomb.

Of course no one thought of looking after me. It was not
the fashion of those days to think of children, if only they
would take themselves off out of the way of the movements
of the grown people ; and so I had run out into the orchard at
the back of the house, and, throwing myself down on my face
under an apple-tree in the tall clover, I gave myself up to
despair, and was sobbing aloud in a nervous paroxysm of
agony, when these words were addressed to me. The speaker
was a tall, shambling, loose-jointed man, with a long, thin
visage, prominent watery blue eyes, very fluttering and seedy
habiliments, who occupied the responsible position of first
do-nothing-in-ordinary in our village of Oldtown, and as
such I must introduce him to my reader’s notice.

Every New England village, if you only think of it, must
have its do-nothing as regularly as it has its school-house or
meeting-house. Nature is always wide awake in the matter
of compensation. Work, thrift, and industry are such an
incessant steam-power in Yankee life, that society would
burn itself out with intense friction were there not interposed
here and there the lubricating power of a decided do-nothing,
— a man who won’t be hurried, and won’t work, and will take
his ease in his own way , in spite of the whole protest of his
neighbourhood to the contrary. And there is on the face of
the whole earth no do-nothing whose softness , idleness , gen- *
eral inaptitude to labour, and everlasting , universal shiftless-

42

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

ness can compare with that of this worthy, as found in a brisk
Yankee village.

Sam Lawson tilled this post with ample honour in Old-
town. He was a fellow dear to the souls of alt “us boys” in
the village , because , from the special nature of his position,
he never had anything more pressing to do than croon and
gossip with us. Pie was ready to spend hours in tinkering a
boy’s jack-knife, or mending his skate, or start at the smallest
notice to watch at a woodchuck’s hole, or give incessant
service in tending a dog’s sprained paw. He was always on
hand to go fishing with us on Saturday afternoons; and I
have known him to sit hour after hour on the bank, surrounded
by a troop of boys , baiting our hooks and taking off our fish.
He was a soft-hearted old body, and the wrigglings and con-
tortions of our prey used to disturb his repose, so^phat it was
a regular part of his work to kill the fish by breaking their
necks when he took them from the hook.

“Why, lordy massy, boys,” he would say, “I can’t bear
to see no kind o’ critter in torment. These ’ere pouts ain’t
to blame for bein’ fish , and ye ought to put ’em out of their
miseiy. P'ish lies their rights as well as any on us.”

Nobody but Sam would have thought of poking through
the high grass and clover in our back lot to look me up, as I
lay sobbing under the old apple-tree , the most insignificant
little atom of misery that ever bewailed the inevitable.

Sam was of respectable family, and not destitute of edu-
cation. He was an expert in at least five or six different
kinds of handicraft, in all of which he had been pronounced
by the knowing ones to be a capable workman, “if only he
would stick to it.” He had a blacksmith’s shop, where,
when the fit was on him , he would shoe a horse better than
any man in the county. No one could supply a missing
screw , or apply a timely brace , with more adroitness. He

Digitized by Google

THE VILLAGE DO-NOTIIING.

43

could mend cracked china so as to be almost as good as new;
he could use carpenter’s tools as well as a born carpenter;
and would doctor a rheumatic door or a shaky window better
than half the professional artisans in wood. No man could
put a refractory clock to rights with more ingenuity than
Sam, — that is , if you would give him his time to be about it.

I shall never forget the wrath and dismay which he roused
in my Aunt Lois’s mind by the leisurely way in which , after
having taken our own venerable kitchen clock to pieces , and
strewn the fragments all over the kitchen, he would roost
over it in endless incubation, telling stories, entering into
long-winded theological discussions , smoking pipes , and giv-
ing histories of all the other clocks in Oldtown, with occasional
memoirs of those in Needmore, the North Parish, and Podunk,
as placidly indifferent to all her volleys of sarcasm and con-
tempt, her stinging expostulations and philippics, as the sail-
ing old moon is to the frisky, animated barking of some
puppy dog of earth.

“Why, ye see, Miss Lois,” he would say, “clocks can’t
be druv; that’s jest what they can’t. Some things can be
druv, and then agin some things can’t, and clocks is that
kind. They’s jest got to be humoured. Now this ’ere ’s a
’mazin’ good clock; give me my time on it, and I’ll have it
so ’t will keep straight on to the Millennium.”

“Millennium!” says Aunt Lois, with a snort of infinite
contempt.

“Yes, the Millennium,” says Sam, letting fall his work in
a contemplative manner. “ That i’ere ’s an interestin’ topic
now. Parson Lothrop, he don’t think the Millennium will
last a thousand years. What’s your ’pinion on that pint,
Miss Lois?”

“My opinion is,” said Aunt Lois, in her most nipping
tones, “that if folks don’t mind their own business, and do

44

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

with their might what their hand finds to do , the Millennium
won’t come at all.”

4

“ Wall, you see, Miss Lois, it’s just here, — one day is with
the Lord as a thousand years , and a thousand years as one
day.”

“I should think you thought a day was a thousand years,
the way you work,” said Aunt Lois.

“ Wall,” says Sam, sitting down with his back to his des-
perate litter of wheels, weights, and pendulums, and medita-
tively caressing his knee as he watched the sailing clouds in
abstract meditation, “ye see, cf a thing ’s ordained, why it’s
got to be, ef you don’t lift a finger. That ’ere ’s so now,
ain’t it?”

“ Sam Lawson , you are about the most aggravating crea-
ture I ever had to do with. Here you’ve got our clock all
to pieces, and have been keeping up a perfect hurrah’s nest
in our kitchen for three days, and there you sit maundering
and talking with your back to your work , fussin’ about the
Millennium, which is none of your business, or mine, as I
know of! Do either put that clock together or let it alone ! ”

“Don’t you be a grain uneasy, Miss Lois. Why, I’ll have
your clock all right in the end, but I can’t be druv. Wall, I
guess I’ll take another spell on ’t to-morrow or Friday.”

Poor Aunt Lois , horror-stricken , but seeing herself actu-
ally in the hands of the imperturbable enemy , now essayed
the tack of conciliation. “Now do, Lawson, just finish up
this job, and I’ll pay you down, right on the spot; and you
need the money.”

“I’d like to ’blige ye, Miss Lois; but ye see money ain’t
everything in this world. Ef I work tew long on one thing,
my mind kind o’ gives out, ye see ; and besides, I’ve got some
’sponsibilities to ’tend to. There’s Mrs. Captain Brown, she
made me promise to come to-day and look at the nose o’ that

THE VILLAGE DO-NOTHING.

45

are silver teapot o’ hern; it’s kind o’ sprung a leak. And
then I ’greed to split a little oven-wood for the Widdah
Pedee, that lives up on the Shelburn road. Must visit the
widdahs in their affliction , Scriptur’ says. And then there’s
Hepsy : she’s allers a-castin’ it up at me that I don’t do no-
thing for her and the chil’en; but then, lordy massy, Hepsy
ha’n’t no patience. Why, jest this mornin’ I was a-teliin’ her
to count up her marcies, and I ’clare for’t if I didn’t think
she’d a throwed the tongs at me. That ’ere woman’s temper
railly makes me consarned. Wall, good day, Miss Lois.
I’ll be along again to-morrow or Friday, or the first o’ next
week.” And away he went with long, loose strides down
the village street, while the leisurely wail of an old fuguing
tune floated back after him —

u Thy years are an
Etarnal day,

Thy years are an
Etarnal day.’'

“An eternal torment,” said Aunt Lois, with a snap. “I’m
sure, if there’s a mortal creature on this earth that I pity, it’s
Hepsy Lawson. Folks talk about her scolding, — that Sam
Lawson is enough to make the saints in heaven fall from
grace. And you can’t do anything with him: it’s like charg-
ing bayonet into a woolsack.”

Now, the Hepsy thus spoken of was the luckless woman
whom Sam’s easy temper, and a certain youthful reputation
for being a capable fellow, had led years before into the
snares of matrimony with him, in consequence of which she
was encumbered with* the bringing up of six children on very
short rations. She was a gnarly, compact, efficient little
pepper-box of a woman, with snapping black eyes, pale
cheeks, and a mouth always at half-cock, ready to go off
with some sharp crack of reproof at the shoreless, bottomless,

46 OLDTOWN FOLKS.

and tideless inefficiency of her husband. It seemed to be
one of those facts of existence that she could not get used to,
nor find anywhere in her brisk, fiery little body a grain of
cool resignation for. Day after day she fought it with as
bitter and intense a vigour, and with as much freshness of
objurgation, as if it had come upon her for the first time, —
just as a sharp, wiry little terrier will bark and bark from
day to day, with never-ceasing pertinacity, into an empty
squirrel-hole. She seemed to have no power within her to
receive and assimilate the great truth that her husband was
essentially, and was to be and always would be, only a do-
nothing.

Poor Hepsy was herself quite as essentially a do-some-
thing, — an early-rising, bustling, driving, neat, efficient,
capable little body, — who contrived, by going out to day’s
works , — washing , scrubbing , cleaning, — by making vests for
the tailor, or closing and binding shoes for the shoemaker,
by hoeing corn and potatoes in the garden at most unseason-
able hours , actually to find bread to put into the mouths of
the six young ravens aforesaid , and to clothe them decently.
This might all do very well ; but when Sam , who believed
with all his heart in the modern doctrines of woman’s rights
so far as to have no sort of objection to Hepsy ’s sawing wood
or hoeing potatoes if she chose, would make the small degree
of decency and prosperity the family had attained by these
means a text on which to preach resignation, cheerfulness,
and submission, then Hepsy ’s last cobweb of patience gave
out, and she often became, for the moment, really dangerous,
so that Sam would be obliged to plunge hastily out of doors
to avoid a strictly personal encounter.

It was not to be denied that poor Hepsy really was a scold,
in the strong old Saxon acceptation of the word. She had
fought life single-handed, tooth and nail, with all the ferocity

4

»

47

THE VILLAGE DO-NOTHING.

«

of outraged sensibilities, and had come out of the fight
scratched and dishevelled, with few womanly graces. The
good wives of the village, versed in the outs and ins of their
neighbours’ affairs, while they admitted that Sam was not all
lie should be, would sometimes roll up the whites of their
eyes mysteriously, and say, “But then, poor man, what could
you expect when he hasn’t a happy home? Hepsy’s temper
is, you know,” &c., &c.

The fact is, that Sam’s softly easy temper and habits of
miscellaneous handiness caused him to have a warm corner
in most of the households. No mothers ever are very hard
on a man who always pleases the children; and every one
knows the welcome of a universal gossip , who carries round
a district a wallet of choice bits of neighbourhood informa-
tion.

Now Sam knew everything about everybody. He could
tell Mrs. Major Broad just what Lady Lothrop gave for her
best parlour carpet, that was brought over from England,
and just on what occasions she used the big silver tankard,
and on what they were content with the little one , and how
many pairs of long silk stockings the minister had, and how
many rows of stitching there were on the shoulders of his
Sunday shirts. He knew just all that was in Deacon Badger’s
best room , and how many silver table-spoons and tea-spoons
graced the beaufet in the corner; and 'when each of his
daughters was born , and just how Miss Susy came to many
as she did, and who wanted to marry her and couldn’t. He
knew just the cost of Major Bread’s scarlet cloak and shoe-
buckles, and how Mrs. Major had a real Ingv shawl up in her
“camphire” trunk, that cost nigh as much as Lady Lothrop’s.
Nobody had made love, or married, or had children born, or
been buried, since Sam was able to perambulate the country,
without his informing himself minutely of every available

48 OLDTOWN FOLKS.

particular; and liis unfathomable knowledge on these subjects
was an unfailing source of popularity.

Besides this, Sam was endowed with no end of idle ac-
complishments. His indolence was precisely of a turn that
enjoyed the excitement of an occasional odd bit of work with
' which he had clearly no concern , and which had no sort of
tendency toward his own support or that of his family. Some-
thing so far out of the line of practical utility as to be in a
manner an artistic labour would awaken all the energies of
his soul. His shop was a perfect infirmary for decayed ar-
ticles of virtu from all the houses for miles around. Cracked
china , lame teapots , broken shoe-buckles, rickety tongs, and
decrepit fire-irons , all stood in melancholy proximity , await-
ing Sam’s happy hours of inspiration, and he was always
happy to sit down and have a long , strictly confidential con-
versation concerning any of these with the owner, especially
if Hepsy were gone out washing, or on any other work which
kept her at a safe distance.

Sam could shave and cut hair as neatly as any barber, and
was always in demand up and down the country to render
these offices to the sick. He was ready to go for miles to
watch with invalids, and a very acceptable watcher he made,
beguiling the night hours with endless stories and legends.
He was also an expert in psalmody, having in his youth been
the pride of the village singing-school. In those days he
could perform reputably on the bass-viol in the choir of a
Sunday with a dolefulness and solemnity of demeanour in the
highest degree edifying, — though he was equally ready of a
week-evening in scraping on a brisk little fiddle, if any of
the thoughtless ones wanted a performer at a husking or a
quilting frolic. Sam’s obligingness was many-sided , and he
was equally prepared at any moment to raise a funeral psalm
or whistle the time of a double-shuffle,

Digitized by Google

THE VILLAGE DO-NOTHING.

49

But tlie more particular delight of Sam’s heart was ’in
funerals. He would walk miles on hearing the news of a
dangerous illness , and sit roosting on the fence of the pre-
mises , delighted to gossip over the particulars , but ready to
come down at any moment to do any of the odd turns which
sickness in a family makes necessary; and when the last
earthly scene was over , Sam was more than ready to render
those final offices from which the more nervous and fastidious
shrink , but in which he took almost a professional pride.

The business of an undertaker is a refinement of modern
civilisation. In simple old days neighbours fell into one an-
other’s hands for all the last wants of our poor mortality; and
there were men and women of note who took a particular and
solemn pride in these mournful offices. Sam had in fact been
up all night in our house, and having set me up in the clover,
and comforted me with a jack-knife, he proceeded to inform
me of the particulars.

“ Why , ye see , Horace , I ben up with ’em pretty much
all night; and I laid yer father out myself, and I never see a
better-lookin’ corpse. It’s a ’mazin’ pity your daddy hed
such feelin’s ’bout havin’ people come to look at him , ’cause
he does look beautiful, and it’s been a long time since we’ve
hed a funeral , anyway, and everybody was expectin’ to come
to his’n, and they’ll all be dissipinted if the corpse ain’t
show’d; but then, lordy massy, folks oughtn’t to think hard
on’t ef folks hes their own way ’bout their own funeral. That
’ere’s what I’ve been a-tellin’ on ’em all, over to the tavern
and round to the store. Why, you never see such a talk as
there was about it. There was Aunt Sally Morse, and Betsey
and Patsy Sawin , and Mis’ Zeruiah Bacon , come over early
to look at the corpse, and when they wasn’t let in, you never
heerd sich a jawin’. Betsey and Patsy Sawin said that they
Oldtoion Folks. 1. . 4

50

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

allers suspected your father was an infidel , or some sich, and
now they was clear; and Aunt Sally, she asked who made
his shroud , and when she heerd there wasn’t to be none , he
was laid out in his clothes, she said she never heerd such un-
christian doin’s, — that she always had heerd he had strange
opinions , but she never thought it would come to that.”

a My father isn’t an infidel, and I wish I could kill ’em for
talking so ,” said I , clenching my jack-knife in my small fist,
and feeling myself shake with passion.

“ Wal, wal, I kind o’ spoke up to ’em about it. I wasn’t
a-goin’ to hear no sich jaw; and says I, 1 1 think ef there is
anybody that knows what’s what about funerals I’m the man,
fur I don’t s’pose there’s a man in the county that’s laid out
more folks, and set up with more corpses, and ben sent for
fur and near, than I have, and my opinion is, that mourners
must always follow the last directions gi’n to ’em by the per-
son. Ef a man hasn’t a right to have the say about his own
body, what hes he a right to?’ Wal, they said that it was
putty well of me to talk so, when I had the privilege of sittin’
up with him, and seein’ all that was to be seen. ‘Lordy
massy,’ says I , 1 I don’t see why ye need envi me ; ’tain’t my
fault that folks thinks it’s agreeable to have me round. As
to bein’ buried in his clothes, why, lordy massy, ’tain’t nothin’
so extraordinary. In the old country great folks is very often
laid out in their clothes. ’Member, when I was a boy, old
Mr. Sanger, the minister in Deerbrook, was laid out in his
gown and bands, with a Bible in his hands, and he looked as
nateral as a pictur. I was at Parson Rider’s funeral , down
to Wrentham. He was laid out in white flannel. But then
there was old Captain Bigelow , down to the Pint there , he
was laid out regular in his rigimentals, jest as he wore ’em in
the war, epaulets and all.’ Wal now, Horace, your daddy
looks jest as peaceful as a psalm-tune. Now, you don’t

THE TILLAGE DO-NOTIIING.

51

know,— jest as nateral as if he’d only jest gone to sleep. So
ye may set your heart at rest ’bout him.”

It was one of those beautiful serene days of October, when
the earth lies as bright and still as anything one can dream
of in the New Jerusalem, and Sam’s homely expressions of
sympathy had quieted me somewhat. Sam, tired of his
discourse, lay back in the clover, with his hands under his
head , and went on with his moralising.

“Lordy massy, Horace! to think on’t, — it’s so kind o’
solemnizin’! It’s one’s turn to-day, and another’s to-morrow.
We never know when our turn’ll come.” And Sam raised a
favourite stave , —

“ ‘And must those active limbs of mine
Lie moulderin’ in the clay?’ ”

“ Active limbs! I guess so!” said a sharp voice, which
came through the clover-heads like the crack of a rifle.
“Well, I’ve found you at last. Here you be, Sam Lawson,
lyin’ flat on your back at eleven o’clock in the morning, and
not a potato dug , and not a stick of wood cut to get dinner
with ; and I won’t cut no more if we never have dinner. It’s
no use a humourin’ you, — doin’ your work for you. The more
I do, the more I may do; so come home, won’t you?”

“Lordy massy, Hepsy!” said Sam, slowly erecting him-
self out of the grass, and staring at her with white eyes, “you
don’t ought to talk so. I ain’t to blame. I hed to sit up with
Mr. Holyoke all night, and help ’em lay him out at four
o’clock this mornin’.”

“ You’re always everywhere but where you’ve business to
be ,” said Hepsy , “ and helpin’ and doin’ for everybody but
your own. For my part, I think charity ought to begin at
home. You’re everywhere, up and down and round, — over
to Shelbun, down to Podunk , up to North Parish ; and here

4 *

I

52 OLDTOWN FOLKS.

Abram and Kiah Stebbins have been waitin’ all the morning
with a horse they brought all the way from Boston to get you
to slioe.”i

“Wal now, that ’ere shows they know what’s what. I
told Kiah that ef they’d bring that ’ere hoss to me I’d tend
to his huffs.”

“And be off lying in the mowing, like a patridge, when
they come after ye. That’s one way to do business,” said
Hepsy.

u Hepsy , I was just a miditatin’. Ef we don’t miditate
sometimes on all these ’ere things , it’ll be wus for us by and
by.”

u Meditate ! I’ll help your meditations in a way you won’t
like, if you don’t look out. So now you come home, and
stop your meditatin’ , and go to doin’ somethin’. I told ’em
to come back this afternoon , and I’d have you on the spot if
’twas a possible thing,” said the very practical Hepsy, laying
firm hold of Sam’s unresisting arm, and leading him away
captive.

I stole into the darkened, silent room where my father had
lain so long. Its desolate neatness struck a chill to my heart.
Not even a bottle remained of the many familiar ones that
used to cover the stand and the mantel-piece : but he, lying
in his threadbare Sunday coat , looked to me as I had often
seen him in later days, when he came from school exhausted,
and had fallen asleep on the bed. I crept to his side and
nestled down on the floor as quietly as a dog lies down by
the side of his master.

Digitized by Google

THE OLD MEETING-HOUSE.

53

CHAPTER V.

Tho Old Meotlng-houae.

The next day was the funeral , and I have little remem-
brance in it of anything but what was dreary. Our Puritan
ancestors, in the decision of their reaction from a dead
formalism, had swept away from the solemn crisis of life
every symbolic expression; and this severe bareness and rigid
restriction were nowhere more striking than in funeral ser-
vices, as conducted in these early times in Massachusetts.

There was at the house of mourning simply a prayer,
nothing more; and then the procession of relatives, friends,
and towns-pcople walked silently to the grave, where, without
text, prayer, or hymn, the dust was for ever given to its fellow-
dust. The heavy thud of the clods on the coffin , the rattling
of spades, and the fall of the earth, were the only voices that
spoke in that final scene. Yet that austere stillness was not
without its majesty, since it might be interpreted, not as the
silence of indifference, but as the stillness of those whose
thoughts are too mighty for words. It was the silence of the
unutterable. From the grave my mother and her two boys
were conducted to my grandfather’s house, — the asylum ever
ready for the widowed daughter.

The next day after was Sunday, and a Sunday full of im-
portance in the view of Aunt Lois, Aunt Keziah, and, in fact,
of every one in the family. It was the custom , on the first
Sabbath after a bereavement, for the whole family circle to
be present together in church , to request in a formal note,
the prayers of the congregation that the recent death might
be sanctified to them. It was a point of honour for all family
connexions to be present at this service, even though they
should not attend the funeral; and my Uncle Bill, a young

54

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

Sophomore in Cambridge College , had come down duly to
be with us on the occasion. He was a joyous, spirited, jolly,
rollicking young fellow , not in the slightest degree given to
funereal reflections, and his presence in the house always
brought a certain busy cheerfulness which I felt to lighten
my darkness.

One thing certainly had a tendency in that direction,
which was that Aunt Lois was always perceptibly ameliorated
by Uncle Bill’s presence. Her sharp , spare features wore a
relaxed and smiling aspect, her eyes had a softer light, and
she belied her own frequent disclaimer, that she never had
any beauty , by looking almost handsome.

Poor Aunt Lois! I am afraid my reader will not do justice
to her worth by the specimens of her ways and words which
I have given. Any one that has ever pricked his fingers in
trying to force open a chestnut-burr may perhaps have moral-
ised at the satin lining , so smooth and soft , that lies inside
of that sharpness. It is an emblem of a kind of nature very
frequent in New England, where the best and kindest and
most desirable of traits are enveloped in an outside wrapping
of sharp austerity.

No person rendered more deeds of kindness in the family
and neighbourhood than Aunt Lois. She indeed bore the
cares of the whole family on her heart; she watched and
prayed and fretted and scolded for all. Had she cared less,
she might perhaps have appeared more amiable. She in-
vested herself, so to speak, in others; and it was vital to her
happiness, not only that they should be happy, but that they
should be happy precisely on her pattern and in her way.
She had drawn out the whole family chart, and if she had
only had power to make each one walk tractably in the path
she foreordained , her sharp , thin face might have had a few
less wrinkles. It seemed to her so perfectly evident that the

Digitized by Google

THE OLD MEETING-HOUSE.

55

ways she fixed upon for each one were ways of pleasantness
and paths of peace, that she scarcely could have patience
with Providence for allowing things to fall out in a way so
entirely different from her designs.

Aunt Lois was a good Christian , but she made that par-
ticular mistake in repeating the Lord’s Prayer which so many
of us quite unconsciously do,— she always said, My will be
done, instead of Thy will. Not in so many words, of course,
— it was the secret inner voice of her essential nature that
spoke and said one thing, while her tongue said another.
But then who can be sure enough of himself in this matter,
to cast the first stone at Aunt Lois ?

It was the fashion of the Calvinistic preaching of that time
to put the doctrine of absolute and unconditional submission
to God in the most appalling forms , and to exercise the con-
science with most severe supposititious tests. After many
struggles and real agonies , Aunt Lois had brought herself to
believe that she would be willing to resign her eternal salva-
tion to the Divine glory; that she could consent to the eternal
perdition of those on whom her heart was most particularly
set, were it God’s will; and thus her self-will, as she sup-
posed, had been entirely annihilated, whereas it was only
doubled back on itself, and ready to come out with tenfold
intensity in the unsuspected little things of this life , where
she looked less at Divine agency than human instrumentality.
No law, as she supposed, required her to submit to people’s
acting foolishly in their worldly matters , particularly when
she was able and willing to show them precisely how they
ought to act.

__

Failing of a prosperous marriage for my mother, Aunt
Lois’s heart was next set upon a college education for my
Uncle Bill, the youngest and brightest of the family. For

56

» OLDTOWN FOLKS.

this she toiled and economised, in family labour, and eked it
out by vest-making at the tailor’s, and by shoe-binding at the
shoemaker’s , — all that she might have something to give to
Bill for spending-money, to keep up his standing respectably
in college. Iier antagonistic attitude toward my brother and
myself proceeded less from hardness of heart than from an
anxious, worrying fear that we should trench on the funds
that at present were so heavily taxed to bring Uncle Bill
through college. Especially did she fear that my father had
left me the legacy of his own ungratified desire for an educa-
tion, and that my grandmother’s indulgence and bountifulness
might lead her to encourage me in some such expectations,
and then where was the money to come from? Aunt Lois
foresaw contingencies afar off. Not content with the cares of
the present day and hour, she dived far into the future, and
carried all sorts of imaginary loads that would come in sup-
posable cases. As the Christian by the eye of faith sees all
sorts of possible good along the path of future duty , so she
by the eye of cautiousness saw every possible future evil that
could arise in every supposable contingency. Aunt Lois’s
friends often had particular reason to wish that she cared
less for them, for then, perhaps, she might give them some
peace. But nothing is so hopeless as your worthy domestic
house-dog, every hair of whose fur bristles with watchfulness,
and who barks at you incessantly from behind a most terrible
entrenchment of faithful labours and loving-kindnesses heaped
up on your behalf.

These dear good souls who wear their life out for you,
have they not a right to scold you , and dictate to you , and
tie up your liberty, and make your life a burden to you? If
they have not, who has? If you complain, you break their
worthy old hearts. They insist on the privilege of seeking
your happiness by thwarting you in everything you want to

Digitized by Google

THE OLD MEETING-HOUSE.

57

do , and putting their will instead of yours in every step of
your life.

Between Aunt Lois and my father there had been that
constant antagonism which is often perceptible between two
human beings, each good enough in himself, but of a quality
to act destructively upon the other. A satin vest and a
nutmeg-grater are both perfectly harmless, and even worthy
existences, but their close proximity on a jolting journey is
not to be recommended.

My father never could bear my Aunt Lois in his house;
and her presence had such an instant effect in developing all
the combative element in him, that really the poor woman
never saw him long enough under an agreeable aspect to
enable her even to understand why my mother should regard
him with affection ; and it is not to be wondered at, therefore,
that she was not a deep mourner at his death. She regarded
her sister’s love for my father as an unfortunate infatuation,
and was more satisfied with the ways of Providence than she
usually was, when its object was withdrawn.

It was according to all the laws of moral gravitation that,
as soon as my father died , my mother became an obedient
satellite in Aunt Lois’s orbit. She was one of those dear,
helpless little women, who, like flowers by the wayside, seem
to be at the disposal of the first strong hand that wants to
gather them. She was made to^e ruled over; and so we all
felt this first Sunday morning that we had come home to be
under the dominion of Aunt Lois. She put on my mother’s
mourning-bonnet and tied it under her meek, unresisting
chin , turning her round and round to get views of her from
different points, and arranging her ribbons and veil and pins
as if she had been a lay figure going to exhibition ; and then
she tied our collars, and gave a final twitch to our jackets,
and warned us not to pull out the pins from the crape bands

58

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

on our new hats, nor to talk and look round in meeting,
strengthening the caution with, “Just so sure as you do,
there’s Mr. Israel Scran , the tithing-man, will come and take
you and set you on the pulpit-stairs.”

Now Mr. Israel Scran on week-days was a rather jolly,
secular-looking individual, who sat on the top of a barrel in
his store, and told good stories; but Israel Scran on Sundays
was a tithing-man, whose eyes were supposed to be as a flame
of fire to search out little boys that played in meeting, and
bring them to awful retribution. And I must say that I shook
in my shoes at the very idea of his entering into judgment
with me for any misdemeanour.

Going to church on the present occasion was rather a severe
and awful ceremony to my childish mind , second only to the
dreary horror of the time when we stood so dreadfully still
around the grave, and heard those heavy clods thud upon the
coffin. I ventured a timid inquiry of my mother as to what
was going to be done there.

Aunt Lois took the word out of her mouth. u Now, Horace,
hush your talk , and don’t worry your mother. She’s going
to put up a note to be prayed for to-day, and we are all going
to join; so you be a good boy, and don’t talk.”

Being good was so frequently in those days represented to
me as synonymous with keeping silence , that I screwed my
little mouth up firmly as I Walked along to the meeting-house,
behind my mother, holding my brother Bill’s hand, and spoke
not a word , though he made several overtures towards con-
versation by informing me that he saw a chipmunk, and that
if it was only Monday he’d hit him smack ; and also telling
me that Sam Lawson had promised to go pout-fishing with
us on Tuesday, with other boy temporalities of a nature
equally worldly.

The meeting-house to which our steps were tending was

THE OLD MEETING-HOUSE.

59

one of those huge, shapeless, barn-like structures, which our
fathers erected apparently as a part of that well-arranged
system by which they avoided all resemblance to those fair,
poetic ecclesiastical forms of the Old World, which seemed
in their view as “garments spotted by the flesh.”

The interior of it was revealed by the light of two staring
rows of windows , which let in the glare of the summer sun,
and which were so loosely framed, that, in wintry and windy
weather, they rattled and shook, and poured in a perfect
whirlwind of cold air, which disported itself over the shiver-
ing audience.

It was a part of the theory of the times never to warm
these buildings by a fire ; and the legend runs that once in
our meeting-house the communion was administered under a
temperature which actually froze the sacred elements while
they were being distributed. Many a remembrance of winter
sessions in that old meeting-house rose to my mind, in which
I sat with my poor dangling feet perfectly numb and para-
lysed with cold, and blew my finger-ends to keep a little
warmth in them, and yet I never thought of complaining; for
everybody was there, — mother, aunts, grandmother, and all
the town, — we all sat and took our hardships in common , as
a plain necessary fact of existence.

Going to meeting, in that state of society into which I was
born, was as necessary and inevitable a consequence of
waking up on Sunday morning as eating one’s breakfast.
Nobody thought of staying away, — and, for that matter, no-
body wanted to stay away. Our weekly life was simple, mono-
tonous, and laborious; and the chance of seeing the whole
neighbourhood together in their best clothes on Sunday was
a thing which, in the dearth of all other sources of amusement,
appealed to the idlest and most unspiritual of loafers. They
who did not care for the sermon or the prayers wanted to see

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

60

l

Major Broad’s scarlet coat and laced ruffles, and his wife’s
brocade dress , and the new bonnet which Lady Lothrop had
just had sent up from Boston. Whoever had not seen these
would be out of society for a week to come , and not be able
to converse understanding^ on the topics of the day.

The meeting on Sunday united in those days, as nearly as
possible, the whole population of a town, — men, women, and
children. There was then in a village but one fold and one
shepherd , and long habit had made the tendency to this one
central point so much a necessity to every one , that to stay
away from “ meetin’,” for any reason whatever, was always a
secret source of uneasiness. I remember in my early days,
sometimes when I had been left at home by reason of some
of the transient ailments of childhood, how ghostly and super-
natural the stillness of the whole house and village outside
the meeting-house used to appear to me, how loudly the clock
ticked and the flies buzzed down the window-pane, and how
I listened in the breathless stillness to the distant psalm-
. singing, the solemn tones of the long prayer, and then to the
monotone of the sermon, and then again to the closing echoes
of the last hymn, and thought sadly, what if some day I
should be left out, when all my relations and friends had
gone to meeting in the New Jerusalem, and hear afar the
music from the ciystal walls !

As our Sunday gathering at meeting was a complete pic-
ture of the population of our village, I shall, as near as pos-
sible, daguerreotype our Sunday audience, as the best means
of placing my readers in sympathy with the scene and actors
of this history.

The arrangement of our house of worship in Oldtown was
somewhat peculiar, owing to the fact of its having originally
been built as a mission-church for the Indians. The central
portion of the house , usually appropriated to the best pews,

Digitized by Google

TI1E OLD MEETING-HOUSE.

61

»

was in ours devoted to them ; and here were arranged benches
of the simplest and most primitive form , on which were col-
lected every Sunday the thin and wasted remnants of what
once was a numerous and powerful tribe. There were four
or five respectable Indian families, who owned comfortable
farms in the neighbourhood, and came to meeting in their
farm-waggons, like any of their white neighbours.

Conspicuous among these , on the front bench , facing the
pulpit, sat the Indian head-magistrate, Justice Waban, — tall
and erect as an old pine-tree , and of a grave and reverend
aspect. Next to him was seated the ecclesiastical superior
of that portion of the congregation , Deacon Ephraim. Mild,
intelligent, and devout, he was the perfect model of the pray-
ing Indian formed in the apostolic traditions of the good Eliot.
By his side sat his wife , Keturah , who , though she had re-
ceived Christian baptism, still retained in most respects the
wild instincts and untamed passions of the savage. Though
she attended church and allowed her children to be baptized,
yet, in spite of minister, elder, and tithing-man, she ob-
stinately held on to the practice of many of her old heathen
superstitions.

Old Keturah was one of the wonders of my childhood.
She was spoken of among the gossips with a degree of awe,
as one who possessed more knowledge than was good for her;
and in thunder-storms and other convulsions of nature, she
would sit in her chimney-corner and chant her old Indian
incantations , to my mingled terror and delight. I remember
distinctly three syllables that occurred very often, — u ah-
mah-ga , ah-mah-ga,” — sometimes pronounced in wild, plain-
tive tones, and sometimes in tones of menace and denuncia-
tion. In fact, a century before , Keturah must have had a
hard time of & with her Christian neighbours; but our minister

Digitized by Google

62

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

was a gentleman and a scholar, and only smiled benignly
when certain elderly ladies brought him terrible stories of
Keturah’s proceedings.

Next to Keturah was seated Deborah Kummacher, an
Indian woman, who had wisely forsaken the unprofitable
gods of the wild forest, and taken to the Christian occupation
of fruit-growing , and kept in nice order a fruit-farm near my
grandfather’s, where we children delighted to resort in the
season, receiving from her presents of cherries, pears, peaches,
or sweet apples, which, she informed us, she was always ready
to give to good children who said their prayers and made
their manners when they came into her house. Next behind
her came Betty Poganut, Patty Pegan, and old Sarah Wonsa-
mug, — hard-visaged , high-cheek-boned females, with snaky-
black eyes, principally remarkable, in my mind, for the quan-
tity of cider they could drink. I had special reason to remember
this , as my grandmother’s house was their favourite resort,
and drawing cider was always the work of the youngest boy.

Then there was Lem Sudock, a great, coarse, heavy-
moulded Indian, with gigantic limbs and a savage face, but
much in request for laying stone walls, digging wells, and other
tasks for which mere physical strength was the chief requisite.
Beside him was Dick Obscue, a dull, leering, lazy, drinking
old fellow , always as dry as an empty sponge , but with an
endless capacity for imbibing. Dick was of a class which
our modern civilisation would never see inside of a church,
though he was in his seat in our meeting-house as regularly
as any of the deacons; but on week-days his principal em-
ployment seemed to be to perambulate the country, making
stations of all the kitchen firesides, where he would tell
stories, drink cider, and moralise, till the patience or cider-
pitchers of his hosts ran dry, when he would rijc up slowly,
adjust his old straw hat, hitch up his dangling nether gar-

TIIE OLD MEETING-HOUSE.

63

ments a little tighter, and with a patronising nod, say, u Wal,
naow, ’f you can spare me, I’ll go.”

Besides our Indian population, we had also a few negroes,
and a side gallery was appropriated to them. Prominent
there was the stately form of old Boston Foodah , an African
prince, who had been stolen from the coast of Guinea in early
youth, and sold in Boston at some period of antiquity whereto
the memory of man runneth not. All the Oldtown people,
and their fathers and grandfathers , remembered old Boston
just as he then existed, neither older nor younger. He was
of a majestic stature, slender and proudly erect, and perfectly
graceful in every movement, his woolly hair as white as the
driven snow. He was servant to General Hull in the Revolu-
tionary war, and at its close was presented by his master with
a full suit of his military equipments, including three-cornered
hat, with plume, epaulets, and sword. Three times a year, — •
at the spring training, the full muster, and on Thanksgiving-
day, — Boston arrayed himself in full panoply, and walked
forth a really striking and magnificent object. In the eyes
of us boys, on these days, he was a hero, and he patronised
us with a condescension which went to our hearts. His wife,
Jinny, was a fat, roly-poly little body, delighting in red and
yellow bonnets , who duly mustered into meeting a troop of
black-eyed, fat, woolly-headed little negroes, whom she
cuffed and disciplined during sermon-time with a matronly
ferocity designed to show white folks that she was in earnest
in their religious training.

Near by was old Primus King, a gigantic retired whale-
man, black as coal, with enormous hands and feet, universally
in demand in all the region about as assistant in butchering
operations.

Besides these , let me not forget dear, jolly old Caesar, my
grandfather’s own negro, the most joyous creature on two

64

OLDTOWN POLKS.

feet. Wliat could not Caesar do? He could gobble like a
turkey so perfectly as to deceive the most experienced old
gobbler on the farm; he could crow so like a cock that all the
cocks in the neighbourhood would reply to him; he could
mew like a cat, and bark like a dog; he could sing and fiddle,
and dance the double-shuffle, and was au fait in all manner
of jigs and hornpipes; and one need not wonder, therefore,
that old Cassar was hugged and caressed and lauded by me
in my childhood as the most wonderful of men.

There were several other coloured families, of less repute,
who also found seats in the negro gallery. One of them was
that of Aunt Nancy Prime, famous for making election-cake
and ginger-pop , and who was sent for at all the great houses
on occasions of high festivity, as learned in all mysteries
relating to the confection of cakes and pies. A tight, trig,
bustling body she, black and polished as ebony, smooth-
spoken and respectful, and quite a favourite with everybody.
Nancy had treated herself to an expensive luxury in the shape
of a husband, — an idle, worthless mulatto man, who was
owned as a slave in Boston. Nancy bought him by intense
labours in spinning flax, but found him an undesirable ac-
quisition, and was often heard to declare, in the bitterness of
her soul , when he returned from his drinking bouts , that she
should never buy another nigger, she knew.

The only thing she gained by this matrimonial speculation
was an abundant crop of noisy children, who, as she often
declared, nearly wore the life out of her. I remember once,
when I was on a visit to her cottage, while I sat regaling my-
self with a slice of cake, Nancy lifted the trap-door, which
went down into the cellar below. Forthwith the whole skir-
mishing tribe of little darkies, who had been rolling about
the floor, seemed suddenly to unite in one coil, and with a
final flop, disappeared in the hole. Nancy gave a kick to the

THE OLD MEETING-nOUSE.

65

door, and down it went; when she exclaimed, with a sigh of
exhausted patience, “Well, now, then, I hope you’ll be still
a minute , anyway ! ”

The houses of the coloured people formed a little settle-
ment by themselves in the north part of the village , where
they lived on most amicable terms with all the inhabitants.

In the front gallery of the meeting-house, opposite the
pulpit, was seated the choir of the church. The leader of our
music was old Mump Morse , a giant of a man , in form not
unlike a cider-hogshead, with a great round yellow head, and
a voice like the rush of mighty winds, who was wont to boast
that he could chord with thunder and lightning better than
any man in the parish. Next to him came our friend Sam
Lawson, whose distinguishing peculiarity it was, that he
could strike into any part where his voice seemed most
needed ; and he often showed the miscellaneous nature of his
accomplishments by appearing as tenor, treble, or counter,
successively, during the rendering of one psalm. If we con-
sider that he also pitched the tunes with his pitch-pipe, and
played on his bass-viol , we shall see increasing evidence of
that versatility of genius for which he was distinguished.

Another principal bass-singer was old Joe Stedman , who
asserted his democratic right to do just as he had a mind to
by always appearing every Sunday in a clean leather apron
of precisely the form he wore about his weeklyj work. Of
course all the well-conducted upper classes were scandalised,
and Joe was privately admonished of the impropriety, which
greatly increased his satisfaction , and caused him to regard
himself as a person of vast importance. It was reported that
the minister had told him that there was more pride in Ills
leather apron than in Captain Browne’s scarlet cloak; but
Joe settled the matter by declaring that the apron was a
Oldtown Folks* I, 5

66

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

matter of conscience with him , and of course after that there
was no more to be said.

These leading characters, with a train of young men and
maidens who practised in the weekly singing-school , used to
conduct the musical devout exercises much to their own satis-
faction, if not always to that of our higher circle.

• And now, having taken my readers through the lower
classes in oui; meeting-house, I must, in order of climax, re-
present to them our higher orders.

Social position was a thing in those days marked by lines
whose precision and distinctness had not been blurred by the
rough handling of democracy. Massachusetts was , in regard
to the aroma and atmosphere of her early days, an aristo-
cratic community. The seeds of democratic social equality
lay as yet ungerminated in her soil. The state was a garden
laid out with the old formal parallelograms and clipped
hedges of princely courts and titled ranks, but sown with
seeds of a new and rampant quality, which were destined to
overgrow them all.

Even our little town had its court circle, its House of Lords
and House of Commons, with all the etiquette and solemn
observances thereto appertaining. At the head stood the
minister and his wife, whose rank was expressed by the pew
next the pulpit. Then came Captain Browne, a retired
English merchant and shipowner, who was reported to have
ballasted himself with a substantial weight of worldly sub-
stance. Captain Browne was a tall, upright, florid man, a
little on the shady side of time , but carrying his age with a
cheerful greenness. His long, powdered locks hung in a
well-tended queue down his back, and he wore a scarlet
coat, with a white vest and stock, and small-clothes, while
long silk stockings with knee and shoe-buckles of the best
paste, sparkling like real diamonds, completed his attire.

THE OLD MEETING-HOUSE.

67

His wife rustled by his side in brocade which might almost
stand alone for stiffness, propped upon heels that gave a
majestic altitude to her tall, thin figure.

Next came the pew of Miss Mehitable Rosseter, who, in
right of being the only surviving member of the family of the
former minister, was looked upon with reverence in Oldtown,
and took rank decidedly in the Upper House, although a very
restricted and limited income was expressed in the quality of
her attire. Her Sunday suit in every article spoke of ages
past, rather than of the present hour. Her laces were darned,
though still they were laces; her satin gown had been
turned and made over, till every possible capability of it
was exhausted ; and her one Sunday bonnet exhibited a power
of coming out in fresh forms, with each revolving season,
that was quite remarkable , particularly as each change was
somewhat odder than the last. But still, as everybody knew
that it was Miss Mehitable Rosseter, and no meaner person,
her queer bonnets and dyed gowns were accepted as a part
of those inexplicable dispensations of the Providence that
watches over the higher classes , which are to be received by
faith alone.

In the same pew with Miss Mehitable sat Squire Jones,
once, in days of colonial rule, rejoicing in the dignity of
Sheriff of the county. During the years of the Revolutionary
war, he had mysteriously vanished from view, as many good
Tories did; but now that the new social status was well
established , he suddenly reappeared in the neighbourhood,
and took his place as an orderly citizen, unchallenged and
unquestioned. It was enough that the Upper House re-
ceived him. The minister gave him his hand, and Lady
Lothrop eourtesied to him, and called on his wife, and that,
of course, settled the manner in which the parish were to
behave; and, like an obedient flock, they all jumped the

5 *

68

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

%

fence after their shepherd. Squire Jones, besides, was a
well-formed, well-dressed man, who lived in a handsome
style, and came to meeting in Ills own carriage; and these
are social virtues not to be disregarded in any well-regulated
community.

* There were certain well-established ranks and orders in
social position in Oldtown, which it is important that I should
distinctly define. People who wore ruffles round their hands,
and rode in their own coaches, and never performed any
manual labour, might be said to constitute in Oldtown our
House of Lords, — and they might all have been counted on
two or three of my fingers. It was, in fact, confined to the
personages already enumerated. There were the minister,
Captain Browne, and Sheriff Jones.

But below these , yet associating with them on terms of
strict equality, were a more numerous body of Commons —
men of substance and influence, but who tilled the earth
with their own hands, or pursued some other active industrial
calling.

Distinguished among these , sitting in the next pew to the
Sheriff, was Major Broad, a practical farmer, who owned a
large and thriving farm of the best New England type , and
presented that true blending of the labouring man and the
gentleman which is nowhere else found. He had received
his military rank for meritorious services in the late Revolu-
tionary war, and he came back to his native village with
that indefinable improvement in air and manner which is
given by the habits of military life. With us he owed
great prestige to a certain personal resemblance to General
Washington which he was asserted to have by one of our
townsfolk , who had often seen him and the General on the
same field , and who sent the word abroad in the town that
whoever wanted to know how General Washington looked

Digitized by Google

THE OLD MEETING-HOUSE.

69

had only to look upon Major Broad. The Major was too
much of a real man to betray the slightest consciousness of
this advantage , but it invested him with an air of indefinable
dignity in the eyes of all his neighbours, especially those of
the lower ranks.

Next came my grandfather’s family pew; and in our Old-
town House of Commons I should say that none stood higher
than he. In his Sunday suit my grandfather was quite a
well-made, handsome man. His face was marked by grave,
shrewd reflection, and a certain gentle cast of humour, which
rarely revealed itself even in a positive smile, and yet often
made me feel as if he were quietly and interiorly smiling at
his own thoughts. His well-brushed Sunday coat and small-
clothes, his bright knee and shoe-buckles, his long silk
stockings , were all arranged with a trim neatness refreshing
to behold. His hair, instead of being concealed by a wig,
or powdered and tied in a queue, after the manner of the
aristocracy, fell in long curls on his shoulders, and was a
not unbecoming silvery frame to the placid picture of his
face. He was a man by nature silent and retiring, indis-
posed to anything like hurry or tumult, rather easy and
generously free in his business habits, and quietly sanguine
in his expectations. In point of material possessions he was
reputed well to do, as he owned a large farm and two mills,
and conducted the business thereof with a quiet easiness
which was often exceedingly provoking to my grandmother
and Aunt Lois. No man was more popular in the neigh-
bourhood, and the confidence of his fellow-townsmen was
yearly expressed in town-meeting by his reappointment to
every office of trust which he could be induced to accept.
He was justice of the peace, deacon of the church, selectman,
— in short, enjoyed every spiritual and temporal office by
the bestowal of which his fellowmen could express con-

70

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

fidence in him. This present year, indeed, he bore the office
of tithing-man in association with Mr. Israel Scran. It had
been thought that it would be a good thing, in order to
check the increasing thoughtlessness of the rising generation
in regard to Sunday-keeping, to enlist in this office an
authority so much respected as Deacon Badger; but the
manner in which he performed its duties was not edifying to
the minds of strictly-disposed people. The Deacon in his
official capacity was expected to stalk forth at once as a
terror to evil-doers , whereas he seemed to have no capacity
for terrifying anybody. When a busy individual informed
him that this or that young person was to be seen walking
out in the fields, or picking flowers in their gardens of a
Sabbath afternoon, the Deacon always placidly answered
that he hadn’t seen them; from which the ill-disposed would
infer that he looked another way, of set purpose, and the
quiet internal smile that always illuminated the Peacon’s
face gave but too much colour to this idea.

In those days the great war of theology which has always
divided New England was rife, and eveiy man was marked
and ruled as to his opinions , and the theologic lines passed
even through the conjugal relation, which often, like every-
thing else, had its Calvinistic and its Arminian side.

My grandfather was an Arminian, while my grandmother
was, as I have said, an earnest, ardent Calvinist. Many were
the controversies I have overheard between them , in which
the texts of Scripture flew thick and fast, until my grand-
father at last would shut himself up in that final fortress of
calm and smiling silence which is so provoking to feminine
ardour. There entrenched , he would look out upon his as-
sailants with a quiet imperturbable good-humour which quite
drove them to despair.

It was a mystery to my grandmother how a good man , as

TIIE OLD MEETING-HOUSE.

71

she knew my grandfather to be, could remain years unmoved
in the very hearing of such unanswerable arguments as she
had a thousand times brought up, and still, in the very even-
ing of his days, go on laying his serene old head on an
Arminian pillow! My grandfather was a specimen of that
class of men who can walk amid the opinions of their day,
encircled by a halo of serene and smiling individuality which
quarrels with nobody, and without shocking any one’s pre-
judices, preserves intact the liberty of individual dissent.
He silently went on thinking and doing exactly as he pleased,
and yet was always spoken of as the good Deacon. His calm,
serene , benignant figure was a sort of benediction as he sat
in his pew of a Sunday; and if he did not see the little boys
that played , or seeing them , only smilingly brought them to
a sense of duty by passing them a head of fennel through the
slats of the pews , still Deacon Badger was reckoned about
the best man in the world.

By the side of my grandfather sat his eldest born , Uncle
Jacob, a hale, thrifty young farmer, who, with his equally
hale and thrifty wife, was settled on a well-kept farm at some
distance from ours. Uncle Jacob was a genuine son of the
soil, whose cheeks were ruddy as clover, and teeth as white
as new milk. He had grown up on a farm, as quietly as a
tree grows, and bad never been ten miles from his birthplace.
He was silent, contented, and industrious. He was in his
place to be prayed for as one of a bereaved family, of course,
this morning; but there was scarcely more capability of
mourning in his plump, healthy body than there is in that
of a well-fed, tranquil steer. But he took his weekly portion
of religion kindly. It was the thing to do on Sunday, as
much as making hay or digging potatoes on Monday. His
wife by his side displayed no less the aspect of calm, respect-
able, well-to-do content. Her Sunday bonnet was without

72

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

spot, her Sunday gown without wrinkle; and she had a great
bunch of fennel in her pocket-handkerchief, which, from time
to time, she imparted to us youngsters with a benevolent
smile.

Far otherwise was the outward aspect of my grandmother’s
brother, Eliakim Sheril. He was a nervous, wiry, thin, dry,
little old man, every part of whose body appeared to be hung
together by springs that were in constant vibration. He had
small, keen black eyes, a thin, sharp, hooked nose, which he
was constantly buffeting, and blowing, and otherwise mal-
treating , in the fussy uneasiness which was the habit of the
man.

Uncle ’Liakim was a man known as uncle to all the village,
— the kindest-souled , most untiringly benevolent, single-
hearted old body that could be imagined; but his nervous
activity was such as to have procured among the boys a
slight change in the rendering of his name, which was always
popularly given as Uncle Fliakim, and, still more abbreviated,
Uncle Fly.

“Can you tell me where Mr. Sheril is?” says an inquirer
at the door of my grandfather’s mill.

“If you want to find ’Liakim,” says my grandfather, with
his usual smile, “never go after him, — you’ll never catch him;
but stand long enough on any one spot on earth, and he’s
sure to go by.”

Uncle ’Liakim had his own particular business, — the over-
seeing of a soap and candle factory; but, besides that, he had
on his mind the business of everybody else in town,— the
sorrows of every widow , the lonely fears of every spinster,
the conversion of every reprobate, the orthodoxy of every
minister, the maimers and morals of all the parish, — all of
which caused him to be up early and down late, and flying
about confusedly at all hours , full of zeal , full of kindness,

THE OLD MEETING-HOUSE.

73

abounding in suggestions, asking questions, the answers of
which he could not stop to hear , making promises which lie
did not remember, and which got him into no end of trouble
with people who did, telling secrets, and letting innumerable
cats out of countless bags , to the dismay and affright of all
reserved and well-conducted people. Uncle Fliakim, in fact,
might be regarded in our village of Oldtown as a little brown
pudding-stick that kept us in a perpetual stir. To be sure,
it was a general stir of loving-kindness and good intentions,
yet it did not always give unlimited satisfaction.

For instance, some of the more strictly disposed members
of the congregation were scandalised that Uncle Fliakim,
every stormy Sunday, nearly destroyed the solemnity of the
long prayer by the officious zeal which he bestowed in getting
sundry forlorn old maids, widows, and other desolate women
to church. He had a horse of that immortal species well
known in country villages, — made of whalebone and india-
rubber, with a long neck, a hammer-head, and one blind eye,
— and a waggon which rattled and tilted and clattered in every
part, as if infected with a double portion of its owner’s spirits;
and, mounting in this, he would drive miles in the rain or the
snow, all for the pleasure of importing into the congregation
those dry, forlorn, tremulous specimens of female mortality
which abound in every village congregation.

Uncle Fliakim had been talked to on this subject, and
duly admonished. The benevolence of his motives was
allowed; but why, it was asked, must he always drive his
waggon with a bang against the doorstep just as the con-
gregation rose to the first prayer? It was a fact that the still-
ness which followed the words, “ Let us pray,” was too often
broken by the thump of the waggon arid the sound , “ Whoa,
whoa! take care, there!” from without, as Uncle Fly’s blind
steed rushed headlong against the meeting-house door, as if

74

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

he were going straight in , waggon and all ; and then there
would be a further most unedifying giggle and titter of light-
minded young men and damsels when Aunt Bathsheba Sawin
and Aunt Jerusha Pettibone, [in their rusty black-crape
bonnets, with their big black fans in their hands, slowly
rustled and creaked into their seats , while the waggon and
Uncle ’Liakim were heard giggiting away. Then the boys,
if the tithingman was not looking at them, would bet marbles
whether the next load would be old Mother Chris and Phoebe
Drury, or Hetty Walker and old Mother Hopestill Loker.

It was a great offence to all the stricter classes that Uncle
Fly should demean his waggon by such an unedifying char-
acter as Mother Hopestill Loker; for, though her name in-
timated that she ought to have charity, still she was held no
better than a publican and sinner; and good people in those
days saw the same impropriety in such people having too
much to do with reputable Christians that they used to years
ago in a country called Palestine.

For all these reasons Uncle Fliakim was often dealt with
as one of good intentions , but wanting the wisdom which is
profitable to direct. One year his neighbours thought to
employ his superfluous activity by appointing him tithing-
man; and great indeed in this department were his zeal and
activity ; but it was soon found that the dear man’s innocent
sincerity of heart made him the prey of every village good-
for-naught who choose to take him in. All the naughty boys
in town were agog with expectancy when Joe Valentine de-
clared , with a wink , that he’d drive a team on Sunday right
by Uncle Fly’s house, over to Hopkinton, with his full con-
sent. Accordingly, the next Sunday he drove leisurely by
with a solemn face and a broad weed on his hat. Uncle Fly
ran panting , half dressed , and threw himself distractedly on

75

THE OLD MEETING-HOUSE.

the neck of the horse. u My young friend , I cannot permit
it. You must turn right back.”

“My dear sir,” said Joe, “haven’t you heard that my
mother is lying dead in Hopkinton at this very moment?”

“Is it possible?” said my uncle, with tears in his eyes.

. “I beg your pardon. I hadn’t heard it. Proceed, by all
means. I’m sorry I interrupted you.”

The next morning wicked Joe careered by again. “Good
morning, Mr. Sheril. I s’pose you know my mother’s been
lying dead these five years ; but I’m equally obliged for your
politeness.”

Vain was Uncle Fly’s indignation. Greater men than he
have had to give up before the sovereign power of a laugh,
and ere long he resigned the office of tithing-man as one re-
quiring a sterner metal than he possessed. In fact, an un- *
savoury character, who haunted the tavern, and was called
by the boys Old Mopshear, gave a resume of his opinions of
tithing-raen as seen from the camp of the enemy.

“Old Deacon Badger,” he said, “was always lookin’ t’other
way, and never saw nothin’ ’twas goin’ on. But there was
Uncle Fliakim, — wal, to be sure the gals couldn’t tie up their
shoes without he was a-lookin’ ; but then, come to railly doin’
anythin’, it was only a snap, and he was off again. He wa’ n’t
much more ’n a middlin’-sized grasshopper, arter all. Tell
you what,” said Mopshear, “it takes a fellow like Israel
Scran, that knows what he’s about, and ’s got some body to
do with. When old Jerusalem Ben swore he’d drive the
stage through the town a Sunday, I tell you it was fun to see
Israel Scran. He jest stood out by the road and met the
hosses smack, and turned ’em so quick that the stage flopped
over like a wink , and Ben was off' rolling over and over in
the sand. Ben got the wust on’t that time. I tell you, it
takes Israel Scran to be tithing-man!”

41

Digitized by Google

76

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

Good U^cle Fliakim had made himself extremely busy in
my father’s last sickness , dodging out of one door and in at
another, at all hours; giving all manner of prescriptions for
his temporal and spiritual state , but always in too much of a
hurry to stop a minute, — a consideration which, I heard my
father say, was the only one which made him tolerable. But,
after all, I liked him, though he invariably tumbled over me,
either in coming into or going out of the house, and then
picked me up and gave me a cent, and went on rejoicing.
The number of cents I acquired in this way became at last
quite a little fortune.

But time would fail me to go on and describe all the quid-
dities and oddities of our Sunday congregation. Suffice it
to say, that we all grew in those days like the apple-trees in
our back lot. Every man had his own quirks and twists, and
threw himself out freely in the line of his own individuality;
and so a rather jerky, curious, original set of us there was.
But such as we were , high and low , good and bad , refined
and illiterate , jbarbarian and civilised , negro and white , the
old meeting-house united us all on one day of the week , and
its solemn services formed an insensible but strong bond of
neighbourhood charity.

We may rail at Blue Laws and Puritan strictness as much
as we please, but certainly those communities where our
fathers earned out their ideas fully had their strong points;
and rude and primitive as our meeting-houses were, this
weekly union of all classes in them was a most powerful and
efficient means of civilisation. The man or woman cannot
utterly sink who on every seventh day is obliged to appear
in decent apparel, and to join with all the standing and re-
spectability of the community in a united act of worship.

Nor were our Sunday services, though simple, devoid of
their solemn forms. The mixed and motley congregation

THE OLD MEETING-HOUSE.

77

came in with due decorum during the ringing of the first bell,
and waited in their seats the advent of the minister. The
tolling of the bell was the signal for him that his audience
were ready to receive him, and he started from his house.
The clerical dress of the day, the black silk gown, the spot-
less bands , the wig and three-cornered hat and black gloves,
were items of professional fitness which, in our minister’s case,
never failed of a due attention. When, with his wife leaning
on his arm, he entered at the door of the meeting-house, the
whole congregation rose and remained reverently standing
until he had taken his seat in the pulpit. The same reveren-
tial decorum was maintained after service was over, when all
remained standing and uncovered while the minister and his
family passed down the broad aisle and left the house. Our
fathers were no man-worshippers, but they regarded the
minister as an ambassador from the great Sovereign of the
* universe , and paid reverence to Him whose word he bore in
their treatment of him.

On the Sunday following the funeral of any one in the
parish, it was customary to preach a sermon having immediate
reference to the event which had occurred, in the course of
which the nearest friends and relatives were directly ad-
dressed, and stood up in their seats to receive the pastoral
admonition and consolation. 1 remember how wan and faded,
like a shimmering flower, my poor mother rose in her place,
while I was forcibly held down by Aunt Lois’s grasp on my
jacket till the “orphan children” were mentioned, when I
was sent up on my feet with an impulse like a Jack-in-a-
box; and afterward the whole family circle arose and stood,
as the stream of admonition and condolence became more
general. We were reminded that the God of the widow
and orphan never dies, — that this life is the shadow, and the
life to come the substance, — that there is but one thing need"

78

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

ful, — that as our departed friend is to-day, so we may all
be to-morrow; and then the choir sung, to the tune of old
Darwen,

“Shall man, O God of life and light,

For ever moulder in the grave?

Hast Thou forgot Thy glorious work ,

Thy promise and Thy power to save?’'

I cannot say much for our country psalmody. Its execution
was certainly liable to severe criticism ; and Uncle Fliakim,
on every occasion of especial solemnity, aggravated its peculi-
arities by tuning up in a high, cracked voice a weird part, in
those days called “counter,” but which would in our days
insure his being taken out of the house as a possessed person.
But, in spite of all this, those old minor-keyed funeral hymns
in which our fathers delighted always had a quality in them
that affected me powerfully. The music of all barbarous
nations is said to be in the minor key, and there is in its dark
combinations something that gives piercing utterance to that
undertone of doubt, mystery, and sorrow by which a sensitive
spirit always is encompassed in this life.

I was of a peculiarly sensitive organisation; my nerves
shivered to every touch, like harp-strings. What might have
come over me had I heard the solemn chants of cathedrals,
and the deep pulsations of the old organ-hearts that beat
there, I cannot say, but certain it is that the rude and primitive
singing in our old meeting-house always excited me power-
fully. It brought over me, like a presence , the sense of the
infinite and eternal, the yearning and the fear and the desire
of the poor finite being, so ignorant and so helpless. I left
the church lifted up as if walking on air, with the final words
of the psalm floating like an illuminated cloud around me,-r-

“ Faith sees the bright eternal doors
Unfold to make His children way ;

They shall be crown’d with endless life,

• And shine in everlasting day.”

, FIRE-LIGHT TALKS IN MY GRANDMOTHER’S KITCHEN. 79

CHAPTER VI.

Fire-light talks in my Grandmother’s Kitchen.

My grandmother’s kitchen was a great, wide, roomy apart-
ment, whose white-sanded floor was always as clean as hands
could make it. It was resplendent with the sheen of a set of
scoured pewter plates and platters , which stood arranged on
a dresser on one side. jThe great fireplace swept quite across
another side. There we burned cord-wood, and the fire was
built up on architectural principles known to those days. First
came an enormous back-log, rolled in with the strength of
two men, on the top of which was piled a smaller log; and
then a fore-stick, of a size which would entitle it to rank as a
log in our times, went to make the front foundation of the fire.
The rearing of the ample pile thereupon was a matter of no
small architectural skill, and all the ruling members of our
family circle had their own opinions about its erection, which
they maintained with the zeal and pertinacity which become
earnest people. My grandfather, with his grave smile, in-
sisted that he was the only reasonable fire-builder of the
establishment; but when he had arranged his sticks in the
most methodical order, my grandmother would be sure to
rush out with a thump here, and a twitch there, and divers
incoherent exclamations tending to imply that men never
knew how to build a fire. Frequently her intense zeal for
immediate effect would end in a general rout and roll of the
sticks in all directions, with pulls of smoke down the
chimney, requiring the setting open of the outside door; and
then Aunt Lois would come to the rescue, and, with a face
severe with determination, tear down the whole structure
and rebuild from the foundation with the exactest precision,
but with an air that cast volumes of contempt on all that

80

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

bad gone before. The fact is, that there is no little nook of
domestic life which gives snug harbour to so much self-will
and self-righteousness as the family hearth*, and this is par-
ticularly the case with wood fires, because, from the miscel-
laneous nature of the material, and the sprightly activity of
the combustion, there is a constant occasion for tending and
alteration, and so a vast field for individual opinion.

We had come home from our second Sunday service. Our
evening meal of smoking brown bread and baked beans had
been discussed, and the supper-things washed and put out
of sight. There was an uneasy, chill moaning and groaning
out of doors, showing the coming up of an autumn storm, —
just enough chill and wind to make the brightness of a social
hearth desirable, — and my grandfather had built one of his
most methodical and splendid fires.

The wide, ample depth of the chimney was aglow in all
its cavernous length with the warm leaping light that burst
out in lively jets and spirts from every rift and chasm. The
great black crane that swung over it, with its multiplicity of
pot-hooks and trammels, seemed to have a sort of dusky
illumination , like that of old Caesar’s black , shining face, as
he sat on his block of wood in the deep recess of the farther
comer, with his hands on the knees of his Sunday pantaloons,
gazing lovingly into the blaze with all the devotion of a fire-
worshipper. On week-day evenings old Caesar used to have
his jack-knife in active play in this corner, and whistles and
pop-guns and squirrel-traps for us youngsters grew under his
plastic hand; but on Sunday evening he was too good a
Christian even to think of a jack-knife, and if Ills hand
casually encountered it in his pocket, he resisted it as a
temptation of the devil, and sat peacefully winking and
blinking, and occasionally breaking out into a ripple of
private giggles which appeared to spring purely from the

FIRE-LIGHT TALKS IN MY GRANDMOTHER’S KITCHEN. 81

overflow of bodily contentment. My Uncle Bill was in that
state which is peculiarly apt to manifest itself in the youth of
well-conducted families on Sunday evenings, — a kind of
friskiness of spirits which appears to be a reactionary con-
dition from the spiritual tension of the day, inclining him to
skirmish round on all the borders and outskirts of permitted
pleasantry, and threatening every minute to burst out into
most unbecoming uproariousness. This state among the
youngsters of a family on Sunday evening is a familiar trial
of all elders who have had the task of keeping them steady
during the sacred hours.

My Uncle Bill, in his week-day frame, was the wit and
buffoon of the family, — an adept in every art that could shake
the sides, and bring a laugh out on the gravest face. His
features were flexible, his powers of grimace and story-telling
at times irresistible. On the present occasion it was only my
mother’s pale, sorrowful face that kept him in any decent
bounds. He did not wish to hurt his sister’s feelings, but he
was boiling over with wild and elfish impulses, which he
vented now by a sly tweak at the cat’s tail, then by a sur-
reptitious dig at black Caesar’s sides, which made the poor
black a helpless, quivering mass of giggle, and then he would
slyly make eyes and mouths at Bill and me behind Aunt
Lois’s chair, which almost slew us with laughter, though all
the while he appeared with painful effort to keep on a face of
portentous gravity.

On the part of Aunt Lois, however, there began to be
manifested unequivocal symptoms that it was her will and
pleasure to have us all leave our warm fireside and establish
ourselves in the best room, — for we had a best room, else
wherefore were we on tea-drinking terms with the high
aristocracy of Oldtown? We had our best room, and kept it
as cold, as uninviting, and stately, as devoid of human light
Oldloten Folks. 1 , 6

82

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

or warmth, as the most fashionable shut-up parlour of modern
days. It had the tallest and brightest pair of brass andirons
conceivable , and a shovel and tongs to match , that were so
heavy that the mere lifting them was work enough , without
doing anything with them. It had also a bright-varnished
mahogany tea-table, over which was a looking-glass, in a gilt
frame, with a row of little architectural balls on it; which
looking-glass was always kept shrouded in white muslin at all
seasons of the year , on account of a tradition that flies might
be expected to attack it for one or two weeks in summer. But
truth compels me to state, that I never saw or heard of a fly
whose heart could endure Aunt Lois’s parlour. It was so
dark, so cold, so still, that all that frisky, buzzing race, who
delight in air and sunshine, universally deserted and seceded
from it; yet the looking-glass, and occasionally the fire-irons,
were rigorously shrouded , as if desperate attacks might any
moment be expected.

Now the kitchen was my grandmother’s own room. In
one corner of it stood a round table with her favourite books,
her great work-basket, and by it a rickety rocking-chair, the
bottom of which was of ingenious domestic manufacture,
being in fact made by interwoven strips of former coats and
pantaloons of the home circle; but a most comfortable and
easy seat it made. My grandfather had also a large splint-
bottomed arm-chair, with rockers to it , in which he swung
luxuriously in the corner of the great fireplace. By the side
of its ample blaze we sat down to our family meals, and after-
wards , while grandmother and Aunt Lois washed up the tea-
. things, we all sat and chatted by the fire-light. Now it was
a fact that nobody liked to sit in the best room. In the
kitchen each member of the family had established unto him
or her self some little pet private snuggery, some chair or
stool, some individual nook— forbidden to gentility, but dear

Digitized by Google

FIRE-LIGHT TALKS IN MY GRANDMOTHER’S KITCHEN. 83

to the ungenteel natural heart, — that we looked hack to re-
gretfully when we were banished to the colder regions of the
best room.

There the sitting provisions were exactly one dozen
stuffed-seated cherry chairs , with upright backs and griffin
feet, each foot terminating in a bony claw, which resolutely
grasped a ball. These chairs were high and slippery, and
preached decorum in the very attitudes which they necessi-
tated, as no mortal could ever occupy them except in the
exercise of a constant and collected habit of mind.

Things being thus, when my Uncle Bill saw Aunt Lois take
up some coals on a shovel, and look towards the best-room
door, he came and laid his hand on hers directly, with, “ Now,
Lois, what are you going to do?”

“ Groin g to make up a fire in the best room.”

“Now, Lois, I protest. You’re not going to do any such
thing. Hang grandeur and all that.

*Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,

Be it ever so humble , there’s no place like home,’

you know; and home means right here by mother’s kitchen-
fire, where she and father sit, and want to sit. You know
nobody ever wants to go into that terrible best room of
yours.”

“Now, Bill, how you talk!” said Aunt Lois, smiling, and
putting down her shovel. “But then, you see,” she said, the
anxious cloud again settling down on her brow, — “you see,
we’re exposed to calls , and who knows who may come in ? I
shouldn’t wonder if Major Broad or Miss Mehitable might
drop in, as they saw you down from college.”

“Let ’em come; never fear. They all know we’ve got a
best room, and that’s enough. Or, if you’d rather, I’ll pin a
card to that effect upon the door; and then we’ll take our
ease. Or, better than that, I’ll take ’em all in and show ’em

6 *

84

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

our best chairs, and irons, and mahogany table, and then we
can come out and be comfortable.”

“ Bill, you’re a saucy boy,” said Aunt Lois, looking at him
indulgently, as she subsided into her chair.

“Yes, that he always was,” said my grandfather, with a
smile of the kind that fathers give to frisky sophomores in
college.

“Well, come sit down, anyway,” said my grandmother,
“and let’s have a little Sunday-night talk.”

“ Sunday-night talk , with all my heart ,” said Bill, as he
seated himself comfortably right in front of the cheerful blaze.
“ Well, k it must be about ‘the meetin’,’ of course. Our old
meeting-house looks as elegant as ever. Of all the buildings
I ever saw to worship any kind of a being in , that meeting-
house certainly is the most extraordinary. It really grows on
me every time 1 come home!”

“ Come, now, Bill,” said Aunt Lois.

“Come, now! Ain’t I coming? Haven’t said anything
but what you all know. Said our meeting-house was extra-
ordinary , and you all know it is ; and there’s extraordinary
folks in it. I don’t believe so queer a tribe could be mustered
in all the land of Israel as we congregate. I hope some of
our oddities will be in this evening after cider. I need to
study a little , so that I can give representations of nature in
our club at Cambridge. Nothing like going back to nature,
you know. Old Obscue, seems to me, was got up in fine
fancy this morning; and Sam Lawson had an extra touch of
the horse about him. Hepsy must have been disciplining
him this morning, before church. I always know when
Sam is fresh from a matrimonial visitation: he’s peculiarly
pathetic about the gills at those times. Why don’t Sam come
in here?”

“I’m sure I hope he won’t,” said Aunt Lois. “One

Digitized by Google

FIRE -LIGHT TALKS IN MY GRANDMOTHER’S KITCHEN. 85

reason why I wanted to sit in the best room to-night was
that every old tramper and queer object sees the light of our
kitchen fire, and comes in for a lounge and a drink; and
then, when one has genteel persons calling, it makes it un-
pleasant.”

“Oh, we all know you’re aristocratic, Lois; but, you see,
you can’t be indulged. You must have your purple and fine
linen and your Lazarus at the gate come together sometime,
just as they do in the meeting-house and the graveyard. Good
for you all, if not agreeable.”

Just at this moment the conversation was interrupted by a
commotion in the back sink-room , which sounded much like
a rush of a flight of scared fowl. It ended with a tumble of
a row of milk-pans toward chaos, and the door flew open and
Uncle Fly appeared.

“What on earth!” said my grandmother, starting up.
“That you, ’Liakim? Why on earth must you come in the
back way and knock down all my milk-pans?”

“Why, I came ’cross lots from Aunt Bathsheba Sawin’s,”
said Uncle Fly, dancing in, “ and I got caught in those pesky
blackberry-bushes in the graveyard, and I do believe I’ve
torn my breeches all to pieces ,” he added , pirouetting and
frisking with very airy gyrations , and trying vainly to get a
view of himself behind, in which operation he went round and
round as a cat does after her tail.

“Laws a-massy, ’Liakim!” said my grandmother, whose
ears were startled by a peculiar hissing sound in the sink-
room , which caused her to spring actively in that direction.
“Well, now, you have been and done it! You’ve gone and
fidgeted the tap out of my beer-barrel, and here’s the beer
all over the floor. I hope you’re satisfied now.”

“Sony for it. Didn’t mean to. I’ll wipe it right up.
Where’s a towel, or floor-cloth, or something?” cried Uncle

86

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

Fly, whirling in more active circles round and round, till he
seemed to me to have a dozen pairs of legs.

“Do sit down, ’Liakim,” said my grandmother. “Of
course you didn’t mean to ; but next time don’t come bustling
and whirligigging through my back sink-room after dark. I
do believe you never will be quiet till you’re in your grave.”
“Sit down, uncle,” said Bill. “Never mind mother — she’ll
come all right by and by. And never mind your breeches,
H — all things earthly are transitory, as Parson Lothrop told us
to-day. Now let’s come back to our Sunday talk. Did ever
anybody see such an astonishing providence asMissMehitable
Rosseter’s bonnet to-day? Does it belong to the old or the
new dispensation, do you think?”

“Bill, I’m astonished at you!” said Aunt Lois.

“Miss Mehitable is of a most respectable family,” said
Aunt Keziah, reprovingly. “Her father and grandfather and
great-grandfather were all ministers; and two of her mother’s
brothers, Jeduthun and Amariah.”

“Now, take care, youngster,” said Uncle Fly. “You see
you young colts musn’t be too airy. When a fellow begins
to speak evil of bonnets , nobody knows where he may end.”
“Bless me, one and all of you,” said Bill, “I have the
greatest respect for Miss Mehitable. Furthermore, I like
her. She’s a real spicy old concern. I’d rather talk with
her than any dozen of modem girls. But I do wish she’d
give me that bonnet to put in our Cambridge cabinet. I’d
tell ’em it was the wing of a Madagascar bat. Blessed old
soul, how innocent she sat under it! — never knowing to what
wandering thoughts it was giving rise. Such bonnets inter-
fere with my spiritual progress.”

At this moment, by the luck that always brings in the
person people are talking of, Miss Mehitable came in , with
the identical old wonder on her head. Now , outside of our

FIRE-LIGHT TALKS IN MY GRANDMOTHER’S KITCHEN. 87

own blood-relations , no one that came within our doors ever
received a warmer welcome than Miss Mehitable. Even the
children loved her, with that instinctive sense by which
children and dogs learn the discerning of spirits. To be sure
she was as gaunt and brown as the Ancient Mariner, but hers
was a style of ugliness that was neither repulsive nor vulgar.
Personal uncomeliness has its differing characters , and there
are some very homely women who have a style that amounts
to something like beauty. I know that this is not the common
view of the matter; but I am firm in the faith that some very
homely women have a certain attraction about them which
is increased by their homeliness. It is like the quaintness
of Japanese china, — not beautiful, but having a strong, pro-
nounced character, as far remote as possible from the ordinary
and vulgar, and which , in union with vigorous and agreeable
traits of mind, is more stimulating than any mere insipid
beauty.

In short, Miss Mehitable was a specimen of what I should
call the good-goblin style of beauty. And people liked her
so much that they came to liking the singularities which in-
dividualised her from all other people. Her features were
prominent and harsh; her eyebrows were shaggy, and
finished abruptly half across her brow , leaving but half an
eyebrow on each side. She had, however, clear, trustworthy,
steady eyes, of a greenish gray, which impressed one with
much of that idea of steadfast faithfulness that one sees in
the eyes of some good, homely dogs. “ Faithful and true,”
was written in her face as legibly as eyes could write it.

For the rest, Miss Mehitable had a strong mind, was an
omnivorous reader, apt, ready in conversation, and with a
droll, original way of viewing things, which made her society
ever stimulating. To me her house was always full of de-
lightful images, — a great, calm, cool, shady, old-fashioned

88

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

house, full of books and of quaint old furniture, with a garden
on one side where were no end of lilies, hollyhocks, pinks,
and peonies, to say nothing of currants, raspberries, apples,
and pears, and other carnal delights, all of which good Miss
Mehitable was free to dispense to her child-visitors. It was
my image of heaven to be allowed to go to spend an after-
noon with Miss Mehitable, and establish myself, in a shady
corner of the old study which contained her father’s library,
over an edition of “iEsop’s Fables” illustrated with plates,
which, opened, was an endless field of enchantment to me.

Miss Mehitable lived under the watch and charge of an
ancient female domestic named Polly Sliubel. Polly was a
representative specimen of the now extinct species of Yankee
serving-maids. She had been bred up from a child in the
Kosseter family of some generations back. She was of that
peculiar kind of constitution, known in New England, which
merely becomes drier and tougher with the advance of time,
without giving any other indications of old age. The exact
number of her years was a point unsettled even among the
most skilful genealogists of Oldtown. Polly was a driving,
thrifty, doctrinal, and practical female, with strong bones and
muscles, and strong opinions, believing most potently in early
rising, soap and sand, and the Assembly’s Catechism , and
knowing certainly all that she did know. Polly considered
Miss Mehitable as a sort of child under her wardship, and
conducted the whole business of life for her with a sovereign
and unanswerable authority. As Miss Mehitable’s tastes were
in the world of books and ideas, rather than of physical
matters, she resigned herself to Polly’s sway with as good a
grace as possible, though sometimes she felt that it rather
abridged her freedom of action.

Luckily for my own individual self, Polly patronised me,
and gave me many a piece of good advice , sweetened with

FIRE LIGHT TALKS IN MY GRANDMOTHER’S KITCHEN. 89

gingerbread, when I went to visit Miss Rosseter. I counted
Miss Mehitable among my personal friends; so to-night, when
she came in, I came quickly and laid hold of the skirt of her
gown, and looked admiringly upon her dusky face, under the
portentous shadow of a great bonnet shaded by nodding bows
of that preternatural colour which people used to call olive-
green. She had a word for us all, a cordial grasp of the
hand for my mother, who sat silent and thoughtful in her
corner, and a warm hand-shake all round.

“You see,” she said, drawing out an old-fashioned snuff-
box, and tapping upon it, “my house grew so stupid that I
must come and share my pinch of snuff* with you. It’s windy
out to-night, and I should think a storm was brewing; and
the rattling of one’s own window-blinds, as one sits alone,
isn’t half so amusing as some other things.”

“You know, Miss Rosseter, we’re always delighted to have
you come in,” said my grandmother, and my Aunt Lois, and
my Aunt Keziah , all at once. This, by the way, was a little
domestic trick that the females of our family had; and, as
their voices were upon very different keys, the effect was
somewhat peculiar. My Aunt Lois’s voice was high and
sharp, my grandmother’s a hearty chest-tone, while Aunt
Keziah’s had an uncertain buzz between the two, like the
vibrations of a loose string; but as they all had correspond-
ing looks and smiles of welcome, Miss Mehitable was pleased.

“I always indulge myself in thinking I am welcome,” she
said. “And now pray how is our young scholar, Master
William Badger? What news do you bring us from old
Harvard?”

“Almost anything you want to hear, Miss Mehitable. You
know that I am your most devoted slave.”

“Not so sure of that, sir,” she said, with a whimsical
twinkle of her eye. “Don’t you know that your sex are

Digitized by Google

90

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

always treacherous? How do I know that you don’t serve
up old Miss Rosseter when you give representations of the
Oldtown curiosities there at Cambridge? We are a set here
that might make a boy’s fortune in that line, — now aren’t
we?”

“ How do you know that I do serve up Oldtown curiosi-
ties?” said Bill, somewhat confused, and blushing to the
roots of his hair.

“How do I know? Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or
the leopard his spots? and can you help being a mimic, as
you were born, always were, and always will be?”

u Oh, but I’m sure, Miss Mehitable , Bill never would, — he
has too much respect,” said Aunt Keziah and Aunt Lois,
simultaneously again.

“Perhaps not; but if he wants to, he’s welcome. What
are queer old women for, if young folks may not have a good
laugh out of them now and then? If it’s only a friendly
laugh, it’s just as good as crying, and better too. I’d like to
be made to laugh at myself. I think generally we take our-
selves altogether too seriously. What now, bright eyes?”
she added, as I nestled nearer to her. “Do you want to come
up into an old woman’s lap? Well, here you come. Bless me,
what a tangle of curls we have here ! Don’t your thoughts get
caught in these curls sometimes?”

I looked bashful and wistful at this address, and Miss Me-
hitable went on twining my curls around her fingers, and
trotting me on her knee , lulling me into a delicious dreami-
ness, in which she seemed to me to be one of those nice, odd-
looking old fairy women that figure to such effect in stories.

The circle all rose again as Major Broad came in. Aunt
Lois thought, with evident anguish, of the best room. Here
was the Major, sure enough, and we all sitting round the
kitchen fire ! But my grandfather and grandmother welcomed

FIRE-LIGHT TALKS IN MY GRANDMOTHER’S KITCHEN. 91

him cheerfully to their corner, and enthroned him in my
grandfather’s splint-bottomed rocking-chair, where he sat far
more comfortably than if he had been perched on a genteel,
slippery-bottomed stuffed chair with claw feet.

The Major performed the neighbourly kindness of the
occasion in an easy way. He spoke a few words to my mo-
ther of the esteem and kindness he had felt for my father,
in a manner that called up the blood into her thin cheeks,
and made her eyes dewy with tears. Then he turned to the
young collegian , recognising him as one of the rising lights
of Oldtown.

“Our only nobility now,” he said to my grandfather.
“We’ve cut off everything else: no distinction now, sir, but
educated and uneducated.”

“It is a hard struggle for our human nature to give up
titles and ranks, though,” said Miss Mehitable. “For my
part , I have a ridiculous kindness for them yet. I know it’s
all nonsense ; but 1 can’t help looking back to the court we
used to have at the Government House in Boston. You know
it was something to hear of the goings and doings of my Lord
this and my Lady that, and of Sir Thomas and Sir Peter and
Sir Charles, and all the rest of ’em.”

“Yes,” said Bill; “the Oldtown folks call their minister’s
wife Lady yet.”

“Well, that’s a little comfort,” said Miss Mehitable; “one
don’t want life an entire dead level. Do let us have one titled
lady among us.”

“And a fine lady she is,” said the Major. “Our parson
did a good thing in that alliance.”

While the conversation was thus taking a turn of the most
approved genteel style, Aunt Keziah’s ears heard alarming
premonitory sounds outside the door. “Who’s that at the
scraper?” said she.

92

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

“ Oh , it’s Sam Lawson said Aunt Lois , with a sort of
groan. “You may be sure of that.”

“Come in, Sam, my boy,” said Uncle Bill, opening the
door. “Glad to see you.”

“Wal now, Mr. Badger,” said Sam, with white eyes of
veneration, “I’m real glad to see ye. I telled Hepsy you’d
want to see me. You’re the fust one of my Saturday arter-
noon fishin’ boys that’s got into college, and I’m ’mazing
proud on’t. I tell you I walk tall, — ask ’em if I don’t, round
to the store.”

“You always were gifted in that line,” said Bill. “But
come , sit down in the corner , and tell us what you’ve been
about.”

“Wal, you see, I thought I’d jest go over to North Parish
this arternoon, jest for a change, like, and I wanted to hear
one of them Hopkintinsians they tell so much about- and Par-
son Simpson, he’s one on ’em.”

“You ought not to be roving off on Sunday, leaving your
own meeting,” said my grandfather.

“Wall, you see, Deacon Badger. I’m interested in these
’ere new doctrines. I met your Polly a-goin’ over, too,” he
said to Miss Mehitable.

“Oh, yes,” said Miss Mehitable, “Polly is a great Hopkin-
sian. She can hardly have patience to sit under our Parson
Lothrop’s preaching. It’s rather hard on me , because Polly
makes it a point of conscience to fight every one of his dis-
courses over to me in my parlour. Somebody gave Polly an
Arminian tract last Sunday , entitled , 1 The Apostle Paul an
Arminian.’ It would have done you good to hear Polly’s
comments. ‘’Postel Paul an Arminian! He’s the biggest
’lectioner of ’em all.’”

“That he is,” said my grandmother, warmly. “Polly’s
read her Bible to some purpose.”

Digitized by Google «

FIRE-LIGHT TALKS IN MY GRANDMOTHER’S KITCHEN. 93

“ Well, Sam, what did you think of the sermon?” said
Uncle Bill.

“Wal,” said Sam, leaning over the fire, with his long,

bony hands alternately raised to catch the warmth , and then

. »

dropped with an utter laxness , when the warmth became too
pronounced, “Parson Simpson ’s a smart man; but, I tell ye,
it’s kind ’o discouragin’. Why, he said our state and con-
dition by natur was just like this. We was clear down in a
well fifty feet deep, and the sides all round nothin’ but glare
ice; but we was under immediate obligations to get out,
’cause we was free , voluntary agents. But nobody ever had
got out, and nobody would, unless the Lord reached down
and took ’em. And whether He would or not nobody could
tell; it was all sovereignty. He said there wa’n’t one in a
hundred, — not one in a thousand, — not one in ten thousand,

— that would be saved. Lordy massy, says I to myself, ef
that’s so they’re any of ’em welcome to my chance. And so *
I kind o’ ris up and come out, ’cause I’d got a pretty long
walk home , and I wanted to go round by South Pond , and
inquire about Aunt Sally Morse’s toothache.”

“ I heard the whole sermon over from Polly ,” said Miss
Mehitable, “and as it was not a particularly cheerful subject
to think of, I came over here.” These words were said with
a sort of chilly, dreary sigh , that made me turn and look up
in Miss Mehitable’s face. It looked haggard and weary, as
of one tired of struggling with painful thoughts.

“ Wal,” said Sam Lawson, “I stopped a minute round to
your back-door, Miss Rosseter, to talk with Polly about the
sermon. I was a-tellin’ Polly that that ’ere was puttin’ in-
ability a leetle too strong.”

“Not a bit, not a bit,” said Uncle Fly, “so long as it’s
moral inability. There’s the point, ye see, — moral — that’s
the word. That makes it all right.”

94

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

“Wal,” said Sam, “I was a-puttin’ it to Polly this way.
Ef a man ’s cut off his hands , it ain’t right to require him to .
chop wood. Wal, Polly, she says he’d no business to cut
his hands off; and so he ought to be required to chop all the
same. Wal, I telled her it was Adam chopped our hands off.
But she said, no; it was we did it in Adam, and she brought
up the Catechise plain enough , — ‘ We sinned in him , and fell
with him.’ ”

“ She had you there , Sam ,” said Uncle Fly , with great
content. “You won’t catch Polly tripping on the Cate-
chism.”

“Well, for my part,” said Major Broad, “I don’t like these
doctrinal subtilties, Deacon Badger. Now I’ve got a volume
of Mr. Addison’s religious writings that seem to me about the
right thing. They’re very pleasing reading. Mr. Addison
is my favourite author of a Sunday.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Addison had nothing but just mere
morality and natural religion,” said my grandmother, who
could not be withheld from bearing her testimony. “You
don’t find any of the discriminating doctrines in Mr. Addison.
Major Broad, did you ever read Mr. Bellamy’s ‘True Religion
Delineated and Distinguished from all Counterfeits?”’

“No, madam, I never did,” said Major Broad.

“Well, I earnestly hope you will read that book,” said my •
grandmother.

“My wife is always at me about one good book or an-
other,” said my grandfather; “but I manage to do with my
old Bible. 1 haven’t used that up yet.”

“ I should know about Dr. Bellamy’s book by this time,”
said Miss Mehitable, “for Polly entrenches herself in that,
and preaches out of it daily. Polly certainly missed her
vocation when she was trained for a servant. She is a born
professor of theology. She is so circumstantial about all

Digitized by Google

FIRE-LIGHT TALKS IN MY GRANDMOTHER’S KITCHEN. 95

that took place at the time the angels fell, and when the
covenant was made with Adam in the garden of Eden , that
1 sometimes question whether she really might not have been
there personally. Polly is particularly strong on Divine
sovereignty. She thinks it applies to everything under the
sun except my affairs. Those she chooses to look after her-
self.”

u Well,” said Major Broad, “ 1 am not much of a theologian.
I want to be taught my duty. Parson Lothrop’s discourses
are generally very clear and practical, and they suit me.”

“They are good as far as they go,” said my grandmother;
“but I like good, strong, old-fashioned doctrine. I like such
writers as Mr. Edwards and Dr. Bellamy and Dr. Hopkins.
It’s all very well, your essays on cheerfulness and resigna-
tion, and all that; but I want something that takes strong
hold of you , so that you feel something has got you that can
hold.”

“The Cambridge Platform, for instance,” said Uncle
Bill.

“Yes, my son, the Cambridge Platform. I ain’t ashamed
of it. It was made by men whose shoe-latchet we aren’t
worthy to unloose. I believe it, — eveiy word on’t. I believe
it, and I’m going to believe it.”

“And would if there was twice as much of it,” said Uncle
Bill. “That’s right, mother, stand up for your colours. I
admire your spirit. But, Sam, what does Ilepsy think of all
this? I suppose you enlighten her when you return from
your investigations?”

“Wal, I try to. But lordy massy, Mr. Badger, Hepsy
don’t take no kind o’ interest in the doctrines, no mor’n no-
thin’ at all. She’s so kind o’ worldly , Hepsy is. It’s allers
meat and drink, meat and drink, with her. That’s all she’s
thinkin’ of.”

96

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

“ And if you would think more of such things, she wouldn’t
have to think so much,” said Aunt Lois, sharply. “Don’t
you know the Bible says, that the man that providetli not
for his own household hath denied the faith, and is worse
than an infidel V”

“I don’t see,” said Sam, slowly flopping his great hands
up and down over the blaze, — “I railly don’t see why folks
are allers a throwin’ up that ’ere text at me. I’m sure I work
as hard as a man ken. Why , I was a-workin’ last night till
nigh twelve o’clock, doin’ up odd jobs o’ blacksmithin’. They
kind o’ ’cumulate, ye know.”

“Mr. Lawson,” said my grandmother, with a look of long-
suffering patience, “how often and often must I tell you, that
if you’d be steadier round your home , and work in regular
hours , Hepsy would be more comfortable , and things would
go on better?”

“ Lordy massy, Mis’ Badger, bless your soul and body, ye
don’t know nothin’ about it; — ye don’t know nothin’ what I
undergo. Hepsy, she’s at me from morning till night. First
it’s one thing, and then another. One day it rains, and her
clothes-line breaks. She’s at me ’bout that. Now I tell her,
‘Hepsy, I ain’t to blame, — I don’t make the rain.’ And then
another day she’s at me agin ’cause the wind’s east, and
fetches the smoke down chimbley. 1 tell her, ‘Hepsy, now
look here,— do I make the wind blow?’ But it’s no use
talkin’ to Hepsy.”

“ Well, Sam, I take your part,” said Bill. “ I always knew
you was a regular martyr. Come , boys , go down to the cel-
lar and draw a pitcher of cider. We’ll stay him with flagons,

and comfort him with apples. Won’t we, Sam?”

*

As Sam was prime favourite^ with all boys , my brother
Bill and I started willingly enough on this errand, one carry-
ing the candle and the other a great stone pitcher of bounti-

FIRE-LIGHT TALKS IN MY GRANDMOTHER’S KITCHEN. 97

fill proportions, which always did hospitable duty on similar
occasions.

Just as we returned, bearing our pitcher, there came
another rap at the outside door of the kitchen , and old Betty
Poganut and Sally Wonsamug stood at the door.

“Well, now, Mis’ Badger,” said Betty, “Sally and me, we
thought we must jest run in, we go so scar’t. We was
coming through that Bill Morse’s woods, and there come
such a flash o’ lightnin’ it most blinded us, and the wind
blew enough to blow a body over; and we thought there was
a storm right down on us, and we run jest as fast as we
could. We didn’t know what to do, we was so scar’t. I’m
mortal ’fraid of lightnin’.”

“ Why, Betty, you forgot the sermon to-day. You should
have said your prayers, as Parson Lothrop tells you,” said
my grandfather.

“Well, I did kind o’ put up a sort o’ silent ’jaculation, as
a body may say. That is, I jest said, ‘O Lord,’ and kind
o’ gin Him a wink , you know.”

“Oh, you did?” said my grandfather.

“Yes, I kind o’ thought He’d know what I meant.”

My grandfather turned with a smile to Miss Mehitable.
“These Indians have their own wild ways of looking at
things , after all.”

“Well, now, I s’pose you haven’t had a bit of supper,
either of you,” said my grandmother, getting up. “It’s com-
monly the way of it.”

“Well, to tell the truth, I was say in’ to Sarah that if we
come down to Mis’ Deacon Badger’s I shouldn’t wonder if
we got something good,” said Betty, her broad, coarse face
and baggy cheeks beginning to be illuminated with a smile.

“ Here , Horace , you come and hold the candle while I go
into the buttery and get ’em some cold pork and beans,” said
Qldtmn Folks . /« ?

93

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

my grandmother, cheerily. “The poor creturs don’t get a good
meal of victuals very often ; and I baked a good lot on purpose.”

If John Bunyan had known my grandmother, he certainly
would have introduced her in some of his histories as “the
housekeeper whose name was Bountiful;” and under her
care an ample meal of brown bread and pork and beans was
soon set forth on the table in the corner of the kitchen, to
which the two hungry Indian women sat down with the
appetite of wolves. A large mug was placed between them,
which Uncle Bill tilled to the brim with cider.

“I s’pose you’d like twice a mug better than once a mug,
Sally,” he said, punning on her name.

“Oh, if the mug’s only big enough,” said Sally, her snaky
eyes gleaming with appetite; “and it’s always a good big
mug one gets here.”

Sam Lawson’s great white eyes began irresistibly to
wander in the direction of the plentiful cheer which was
being so liberally dispensed the other side of the room.

“Want some, Sam, my boy?” said Uncle Bill, with a
patronising freedom.

“Why, bless your soul, Master Bill, I wouldn’t care a bit
if I took a plate o’ them beans and some o’ that ’ere pork.
Hepsy didn’t save no beans for me ; and , walkin’ all the way
from North Parish, I felt kind o’ empty and windy, as a
body may say. You know Scriptur’ tells about bein’ filled
with the east wind; but I never found it noways satisfying —
it sets sort o’ cold on the stomach.”

“Draw up, Sam, and help yourself,” said Uncle Bill,
putting plate and knife and fork before him ; and Sam soon
showed that he had a vast internal capacity for the stowing
away of beans and brown bread.

Meanwhile Major Broad and my grandfather drew their
chairs together, and began a warm discussion of the Con-

FIRE-LIGHT TALKS IN MY GRANDMOTHER’S KITCHEN. 99

stitution of the United States, which had been recently pre-
sented for acceptance in a Convention of the State of Massa-
„ chusetts.

“I haven’t seen you, Major Broad,” said my grandfather,
“ since you came back from the Convention. I’m very
anxious to have our State of Massachusetts accept that Con-
stitution. We’re in an unsettled condition now; we don’t
know fairly where we are. If we accept this Constitution, we
shall be a nation, — we shall have something to go to work on.”

“Well, Deacon Badger, to say the truth, I could not vote
for this Constitution in Convention. They have adopted it
by a 'small majority; but I shall be bound to record my
dissent from it.”

“Pray, Major, what are your objections?” said Miss
Mehitable.

“I have two. One is, it gives too much power to the
President. There’s an appointing power and a power of
patronage, that will play the mischief some day in the hands
of an ambitious man. That’s one objection. The other is
the recognising and encouraging of slavery in the Constitution.
That is such a dreadful wrong, — such a shameful inconsistency,
— when we have just come through a battle for the doctrine
that all men are free and equal, to turn round and found our
national government on a recognition of African slavery. It
cannot and will not come to good.”

“Oh, well,” said my grandfather, “slavery wilpgradually
die out. You see how it is going in the New England
States.”

“I cannot think so,” said the Major. “I have a sort of
feeling about this that I cannot resist. If we join those States
that still mean to import and use slaves , our nation will meet
some dreadful punishment. I am certain of it.” *

* The dissent of Major Broad of Natick, and several others, on the

7 *

100

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

“Well, really,” said my grandfather, “I’m concerned to
hear you speak so. I have felt such anxiety to have some-
thing settled. You see, without a union we are all afloat, —
we are separate logs, but no raft.”

“Yes,” said Miss Mehitable, “but nothing can be settled
that isn’t founded on right. We ought to dig deep, and lay
our foundations on a rock , when we build for posterity.”

“Were there many of your way of thinking in the Con-
vention, Major?” said my grandfather.

“Well, we had a pretty warm discussion, and we came
very near to carrying it. Now, in Middlesex County, for
instance , where we are , there were only seventeen in favour
of the Constitution, and twenty-five against; and in Worces-
ter County there were only seven in favour and forty-three
against. Well, they carried it at last by a majority of nine-
teen; but the minority recorded their protest. Judge Wid-
gery of Portland , General Thompson of Topsham , and Dr.
Taylor of Worcester, rather headed the opposition. Then
the town of Andover instructed its representative, Mr. Symmes,
to vote against it, but he didn’t; he voted on the other side,
and I understand they are dreadfully indignant about it. I
saw a man from Andover last week who said that he actually
thought Symmes would be obliged to leave the town, he was
so dreadfully unpopular.”

“Well, Major Broad, I agree with you,” said my grand-
mother, heartily, “and I honour you for the stand you took.
Slavery is a sin and a shame; and I say, with Jacob, *0 my
soul , come not thou into their secret, — unto their assembly,
mine honour, be not thou united.’ I wish we may keep clear
on’t. , I don’t want anything that we can’t ask God’s blessing
on heartily, and we certainly can’t on this. Why, anybody

grounds above stated , may still be read in the report of the proceedings of
the Convention that ratified the Constitution.

Digitized by Google

*

FIRE-LIGHT TALKS IN MY GRANDMOTHER'S KITCHEN. 101

tli at sees that great scar on Caesar’s forehead sees what
slavery comes to.”

My grandmother always pointed her anti-slavery argu-
ments with an appeal to this mark of ill-usage which old
Caesar had received at the hands of a brutal master years
before, and the appeal never failed to convince the domestic
circle.

“Well,” said my grandfather, after some moments of
silence, in which he sat gazing fixedly at the great red coals
of a hickory log, “you see, Major, it’s done, and can’t be
helped.”

“It’s done,” said the Major, “but in my opinion mischief
will come of it as sure as there is a God in heaven.”

“Let’s hope not,” said my grandfather, placidly.

Outside the weather was windy and foul, the wind rattling
doors, shaking and rumbling down the chimney, and causing
the great glowing circle lighted by the fire to seem warmer
and brighter. The Indian women and Sam Lawson , having
finished their meal and thoroughly cleaned out the dishes,
grouped themselves about the end of the ingle already occu-
pied by black Caesar, and began a little private gossip among
themselves.

“I say,” says Sam, raising his voice to call my grand-
father’s attention , “do you know, Deacon Badger, whether
anybody is living in the Dench house now?”

“There wasn’t, the last I knew about it,” said my grand-
father.

“ Wal , you won’t make some folks believe but what that
’ere house is haunted.”

“Haunted!” said Miss Mehitable; “nothing more likely.
What old house isn’t ?— if one only knew it; and that cer-
tainly ought to be if ever a house was.”

“But this ’ere’s a regular haunt” said Sam. “I was

Digitized by Google

102

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

a-talkin’ the other night with Bill Payne and Jake Marshall,
and they both on ’em said that they’d seen strange things in

them grounds , — they’d seen a figger of a man”

“ With his head under his arm,” suggested Uncle Bill.
u No, a man in a long red cloak,” said Sam Lawson, “such
as Sir Harry Frankland used to wear.”

“Poor Sir Harry!” said Miss Mehitable; “has he come to
that?”

“Did you know Sir Harry?” said Aunt Lois.

“I have met him once or twice at the Governor’s house,”
said Miss Mehitable. “Lady Lothrop knew Lady Frankland
very well.”

“Well, Sam,” said Uncle Bill, “do let’s hear the end of
this haunting.”

“Nothin’, only the other night I was a-goin’ over to watch
with Lem Moss , and I passed pretty nigh the Dench place,
and I thought I’d jest look round it a spell. And as sure as
you’re alive I see smoke a cornin’ out o’ the chimbley.”

“I didn’t know as ghosts ever used the fireplaces,” said
Uncle Bill. “Well, Sam, did you go in?”

“No, I was pretty much in a hurry; but I telled Jake and
Bill , and then they each on ’em had something to match that
they’d seen. As nigh as I can make it out, there’s that ’ere
boy that they say was murdered and thrown down that ’ere
old well walks sometimes. And then there’s a woman
appears to some , and this ’ere man in a red cloak ; and they
think it’s Sir Harry in his red cloak.”

“For my part,” said Aunt Lois, “I never had much
opinion of Sir Harry Frankland , or Lady Frankland either.
I don’t think such goings on ever ought to be countenanced
in society.”

“ They both repented bitterly, — repented in sackcloth and

*

FIRE-LIGHT TALKS IN MY GRANDMOTHER’S KITCHEN. 103

%

ashes, 1 ’ said Miss Mehitable. “And if God forgives such
sins, why shouldn’t we?”

“What was the story?” said Major Broad.

“Why,” said Aunt Lois, “haven’t you heard of Agnes
Surridge, of Marblehead? She was housemaid in a tavern
there, and Sir Harry fell in love with her, and took her and
educated her. That was well enough ; but when she’d done
going to school he took her home to his house in Boston, and
called her his daughter; although people became pretty sure
that the connexion was not what it should be, and they
refused to have anything to do with her. So he bought this
splendid place out in the woods , and built a great palace of
a house, and took Miss Agnes out there. People that wanted
to be splendidly entertained, and that were not particular as
to morals, used to go out to visit them.”

“I used to hear great stories of their wealth, and pomp,
and luxury,” said my grandmother, “but I mourned over it,
that it should come to this in New England, that people
could openly set such an example and be tolerated. It
wouldn’t have been borne a generation before, I can tell you.
No, indeed, — the magistrates would have put a stop to it.
But these noblemen, when they came over to America,
seemed to think themselves lords of God’s heritage , and free
to do just as they pleased.”

“But,” said Miss Mehitable, “they repented, as I said.
He took her to England, and there his friends refused to
receive her; and then he was appointed ambassador to
Lisbon, and he took her there. On the day of the great
earthquake Sir Harry was riding with a lady of the court
when the shock came, and in a moment, without warning,
they found themselves buried under the ruins of a building
they were passing. He wore a scarlet cloak, as was the
fashion; and they say that in her dying agonies the poor

104

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

creature bit through this cloak and sleeve into the flesh of
his arm , and made a mark that he carried to his dying day.
Sir Harry was saved by Agnes Surridge. She came over the
ruins , calling and looking for him , and he heard her voice
and answered, and she got men to come and dig him out.
When he was in that dreadful situation, he made a vow to
God, if He would save his life, that he would be a different
man. And he was a changed man from that day. He was
married to Agnes Surridge as soon as they could get a priest
to perform the ceremony; and when he took her back to
England all his relations received her, and she was presented
in court, and moved in society with perfect acceptance.”

“I don’t think it ever ought to have been,” said Aunt Lois.
“ Such women never ought to be received.”

“What! is there no place of repentance for a woman?”
said Miss Mehitable. “Christ said, ‘Neither do I condemn
thee; go, and sin no more.*”

I noticed again that sort of shiver of feeling in Miss
Mehitable; and there was a peculiar thrill in her voice, as
she said these words, that made me sensible that she was
speaking from some inward depth of feeling.

“Don’t you be so hard and sharp, Lois,” said my grand-
mother; “sinners must have patience with sinners.”

“Especially with sinners of quality, Lois,” said Uncle Bill.
“ By all accounts Sir Harry and Lady Frankland swept all
before them when they came back to Boston.”

“Of course,” said Miss Mehitable; “what was done in
court would be done in Boston , and whom Queen Charlotte
received would be received in our upper circles. Lady Loth-
rop never called on her till she was Lady Frankland, but
after that I believe she has visited out at their place.”

“Wal, I’ve heerd ’em say,” said Sam Lawson, “that it
would take a woman two days jest to get through cleaning

FIRE-LIGHT TALKS IN MY GRANDMOTHER^ KITCHEN. 105

the silver that there was in that ’ere house , to say nothing '
about the carpets and the curtains and the tapestry. But
then, when the war broke out, Lady Frankland, she took
most of it back to England , I guess , and the house has been
back and forward to one and another. I never could rightly
know just who did live in it. I heard about some French
folks that lived there one time. I thought some day , when I
hadn’t nothing else to do, I’d jest walk over to old Granny
Walker’s, that lives over the other side of Hopkinton. She
used to be a housekeeper to Lady Frankland, and I could
get particulars out o’ her.”,

“Well,” said Miss Mehitable, “I know one woman that
must go back to a haunted house, and that is this present
one.” So saying, she rose and put me off her knee.

“Send this little man over to see me to-morrow,” she said
to my mother. “Polly has a cake for him, and I shall find
something to amuse him.”

Major Broad, with old-fashioned gallantry, insisted on
waiting on Miss Mehitable home; and Sam Lawson reluc-
tantly tore himself from the warm corner to encounter the
asperities of his own fireside.

“Here, Sam,” said good-natured Bill, — “here’s a great
red apple for Hepsy.”

“Ef I dares to go nigh enough to give it to her,” said Sam,
with a grimace. “She’s allers a castin’ it up at me that I
don’t want to set with her at home. But lordy massy, she
don’t consider that a fellow don’t want to set and be hectored
and lectured where he can do better elsewhere.”

“True enough, Sam; but give my regards to her.”

As to the two Indian women, they gave it as their intention
to pass the night by the kitchen fire; and my grandmother, .
to whom such proceedings were not at all strange , assented,
— producing for each a blanket, which had often seen similar

106

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

service. My grandfather closed the evening by bringing out
his great Bible and reading a chapter. Then we all knelt
down in prayer.

So passed an evening in my grandmother’s kitchen, —
where religion, theology, politics, the gossip of the day, and
the legends of the supernatural all conspired to weave a
fabric of thought quaint and various. Intense earnestness,
a solemn undertone of deep mournful awe , was overlaid with
quaint traceries of humour, strange and weird in their effect.
I was one of those children who are all ear, — dreamy listeners,
who brood over all that they hear, without daring to speak of
it; and in this evening’s conversation I had heard enough to
keep my eyes broad open long after my mother had laid me
in bed. The haunted house and its vague wonders filled my
mind , and I determined to question Sam Lawson yet more
about it.

But now that I have fairly introduced myself, the scene of
my story, and many of the actors in it, I must take my
reader off for a while , and relate a history that must at last
blend with mine in one story.

CHAPTER VII.

Old Crab Smith.

On the brow of yonder hill you see that old, red farm-
house, with its slanting back roof relieved against the golden
sky of the autumn afternoon. The house lifts itself up dark
and clear under the shadow of two great elm-trees that droop
over it, and is the first of a straggling, irregular cluster of
farmhouses that form the village of Needmore. A group of
travellers, sitting on a bit of rock in the road below the hill
on which the farmhouse stands, are looking up to it, in earnest
conversation.

OLD CRAB SMITH.

107

\

“Mother, if you can only get up there, we’li ask them to
let you go in and rest,” said a little boy of nine years to a
weary, pale, sick-looking woman, who sat as in utter ex-
haustion and discouragement on the rock. A little girl two
years younger than the boy sat picking at the moss at her
feet, and earnestly listening to her older brother with the air
of one who is attending to the words of a leader^

“I don’t feel as if I could get a step farther,” said the
woman ; and the increasing deadly paleness of her face con-
firmed her words.

“0 mother, don’t give up,” said the boy; “just rest here
a little and then lean on me, and we’ll get you up the hill;
and then I’m sure they’ll take you in. Come, now; I’ll run
and get you some water in our tin cup, and you’ll feel better
soon.” And the boy ran to a neighbouring brook and filled
a small tin cup, and brought the cool water to his mother.

She drank it, and then, fixing a pair of dark, pathetic eyes
on the face of her boy, she said: “My dear child, you have
always been such a blessing to me! What should I do
with you?”

“Well, mother, now, if you feel able, just rest on my
shoulder, and Tiny will take the bundle. You take it, Tiny,
and -we’11 find a place to rest.”

And so, slowly and with difficulty, the three wound their
way up to the grassy top of the hill where stood the red house.
This house belonged to a man named Caleb Smith, whose
character had caused the name he bore to degenerate into
another, which was held to be descriptive of his nature,
namely, “Crab;” and the boys of the vicinity commonly
expressed the popular idea of the man by calling him “Old
Crab Smith.” His was one of those sour, cross, gnarly
natures that now and then are to be met with in New England,
which, like knotty cider-apples, present a compound of hard-

I

108 OLDTOWN FOLKS.

ness , sourness , and bitterness. It was affirmed that a con-
tinual free indulgence in very hard cider as a daily beverage
was one great cause of this churlishness of temper; but be
that as it may, there was not a boy in the village that did not
know and take account of it in all his estimates and calcula-
tions, as much as of north-east storms and rainy weather.
No child ever willingly carried a message to him; no neigh-
bour but dreaded to ask a favour of him; nobody hoped to
borrow or beg of him; nobody willingly hired themselves
out to him, or did him cheerful service. In short, he was a
petrified man, walled out from all neighbourhood sympathies,
and standing alone in his crabbedness. And it was to this
man’s house that the wandering orphan boy was leading his
poor sick mother.

The three travellers approached a neat back porch on the
shady side of the house, where an old woman sat knitting.
This was Old Crab Smith’s wife, or, more properly ‘speaking,
his lifelong bond-slave, — the only human being whom he
could so secure to himself that she should be always at hand
for him to vent that residue of ill-humour upon which the rest
of the world declined to receive. Why half the women in the
world many the men they do, is a problem that might puzzle
any philosopher; how any woman could marry Crab Smith,
was the standing wonder of all the neighbourhood. And yet
Crab’s wife was a modest, industrious, kindly creature, who
uncomplainingly toiled from morning till night to serve and
please him , and received her daily allowance of grumbling
and fault-finding with quiet submission. She tried all she
could to mediate between him and the many whom his ill-
temper was constantly provoking. She did surreptitious acts
of kindness here and there, to do away the effects of his hard-
ness , and shrunk and quivered for fear of being detected in
goodness, as much as many another might for fear of being

Digitized by Google

OLD CRAB SMITH.

109

discovered in sin. She had been many times a mother,—
had passed through all the trials and weaknesses of maternity
without one tender act of consideration, one encouraging
word. Her children had grown up and gone from her,
always eager to leave the bleak, ungenial home, and go out to
shift for themselves in the world, and now, in old age, she
was still working. Worn to a shadow,— little, old, wrinkled,
bowed, — she was still about the daily round of toil, and still
the patient recipient of the murmurs and chidings of her
tyrant.

“ My mother is so sick she can’t get any farther,” said a
little voice from under the veranda; “won’t you let her
come in and lie down a while?”

“Massy, child,” said the little old woman, coming forward
with a trembling, uncertain step. “Well, she does look beat
eout, to be sure. Come up and rest ye a bit.”

“If you’ll only let me lie down a while and rest me,” said
a faint, sweet voice.

“Come up here,” said the old woman, standing quivering
like a gray shadow on the top door-step; and shading her
wrinkled forehead with her hand , she looked with a glance
of habitual apprehension along the road where the familiar
cart and oxen of her tyrant might be expected soon to appear
on their homeward way, and rejoiced in her little old heart
that he was safe out of sight. “Yes, come in,” she said,
opening the door of a small ground-floor bedroom that
adjoined the apartment known in New England houses as
the sink-room, and showing them a plain bed.

The worn and wasted stranger sunk down on it, and as
she sunk , her whole remaining strength seemed to collapse,
and something white and deathly fell, as if it had been a
shadow, over her face.

“Massy to us! she’s fainted clean away,” said the poor

110

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

old woman, quiveringly. “ 1 must jest run for the cam-
phire.”

The little boy seemed to have that un childlike judgment
and presence of mind that are the precocious development of
want and sorrow. He ran to a watcr-pail , and , dipping his
small tin cup, he dashed the water in his mother’s face, and
fanned her with his little torn straw hat. When the old
woman returned , the invalid was breathing again , and able
to take a few swallows of camphor and water which had been
mixed for her.

“ Sonny,” said the old woman, “ you are a nice little nurse,
— a good boy. You jest take care now; and here’s a turkey-
feather fan to fan her with; and I’ll get on the kettle to
make her a cup of tea. We’ll bring her round with a little
nursing. Been walking a long way, I calculate?”

“Yes,” said the boy* “she was trying to get to Boston.”

“What, going afoot?”

“We didn’t mind walking, the weather is so pleasant,”
said the boy; “and Tiny and I like walking; but mother
got sick a day or two ago, and ever since she has been so
tired!”

“Jes’ so,” said the old woman, looking compassionately
on the bed. “Well, I’ll make up the fire and get her some
tea.”

The fire was soon smoking in the great old-fashioned
kitchen chimney, for the neat, labour-saving cook-stove had
as yet no being; and the thin, blue smoke, curling up in the
rosy sunset air, received prismatic colouring which a painter
would have seized with enthusiasm.

Far otherwise, however, was its effect on the eye of Old
Crab Smith, as coming up the hill, his eye detected the
luminous vapour going up from his own particular chimney.

“So, burning out wood, — always burning out wood. I

Digitized by Google

OLD CRAB SMITH.

Ill

told her that I wouldn’t have tea got at night. These old
women are crazy and bewitched after tea, and they don’t
care if they burn up your tables and chairs to help their
messes. Why a plague can’t she eat cold pork and potatoes
as well as I, and drink her mug of cider? but must go to
getting up her fire and biling her kettle. I’ll see to that.
Halloa there,” he said, as he stamped up on to the porch,
‘‘what the devil are you up to now? I s’pose you think I
hain’t got nothing else to do but split up wood for you to
burn out.”

“Father, it’s nothing but a little brush and a few chips,
jest to bile the kettle.”

“Bile the kettle, bile the kettle! Jest like yer lazy, shif’less
ways. What must you be a-bilin’ the kettle for?”

“Father, I jest want to make a little tea for a sick
woman.”

“A sick woman! What sick woman?”

“ There was a poor sick woman came along this afternoon
with two little children.”

“Wal, I s’pose you took ’em in. I s’pose you think we
keep the poorhouse, and that all the trampers belong to us.
We shall have to go to the poorhouse ourselves before long,
I tell ye. But you never believe anything I say. Why
couldn’t you ’a’ sent her to the selectmen? I don’t know why
I must keep beggars’ tavern.”

“Father, father, don’t speak so loud. The poor critter
wan’t able to stir another step , and fainted dead away, and
we had to get her on to a bed.”

“ And we shall have her and her two brats through a fit
of sickness. That’s just like you. Wal, we shall all go to
the poorhouse together before long, and then you’ll believe
what I say, won’t ye? But I won’t have it so. She may stay

112

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

to-night, but to-morrow morning I’ll cart her over to Joe
Scran’s, bright and early, brats and all.”

There was within hearing of this conversation a listener
whose heart was dying within her, — sinking deeper and
deeper at every syllable, — a few words will explain why.

A younger son of a family belonging to the English gentry
had come over to America as a commissioned officer near
the close of the Revolutionary war. He had persuaded to a
private marriage the daughter of a poor country curate, a
beautiful young girl, whom he induced to elope with him,
and share the fortunes of an officer’s life in America. Her
parents died soon after; her husband proved a worthless,
drunken , dissipated fellow ; and this poor woman had been
through all the nameless humiliations and agonies which
beset helpless womanhood in the sole power of such a man.
Submissive, gentle, trusting, praying, entreating, hoping
against hope, she had borne with him many vicissitudes
and reverses, — always believing that at last the love of his
children , if not of her , would awaken a better nature within
him. But the man steadily went downward instead of up-
ward, and the better part of him by slow degrees died away,
till he came to regard his wife and children only as so many
clogs on his life, and to meditate night and day on a scheme
to abandon them , and return , without their encumbrance , to
his own country. It was with a distant outlook to some such
result that he had from the first kept their marriage an entire
secret from his own friends. When the English army, at the
close of the war, re-embarked for England, he carried his
cowardly scheme into execution. He had boarded his wife
and children for a season in a country farmhouse in the
vicinity of Boston, with the excuse of cheapness of lodgings.
Then one day his wife received a letter enclosing a sum of
money, and saying, in such terms as bad men can find to veil

OLD CRAB SMITH.

113

devilish deeds , that .all was over between them , and that ere
she got this he should be on the ocean. The sorest hurt of
all was that the letter denied the validity of their marriage;
and the poor child found, to her consternation , that the mar-
riage certificate, which she had always kept among her
papers, was gone with her husband.

The first result of this letter had been a fit of sickness,
wherein her little stock of money had melted almost away,
and then she had risen from her bed determined to find her
way to Boston, and learn, if possible, from certain persons
with whom he had lodged before his departure, his address
in England, that she might make one more appeal to him.
But before she had walked far the sickness returned upon
her, till, dizzy and faint, she had lain down, as we have de-
scribed, on the bed of charity.

She had thought, ever since she received that letter , that
she had reached the bottom of desolation, — that nothing
could be added to her misery; but the withering', harsh
sounds which reached her ear revealed a lower deep in the
lowest depths. Hitherto on her short travels she had met only
that kindly country hospitality which New England, from
one end to the other, always has shown to the stranger. No
one had refused a good meal of brown bread and rich milk
to her and her children , and more often the friendly house-
wife, moved by her delicate appearance, had unlocked the
sanctum where was deposited her precious tea-caddy, and
brewed an amber cup of tea to sustain the sickly-looking
wanderer. She and her children had been carried here and
there, as occasion offered, a friendly mile or two, when Noah,
or Job, or Sol, “hitched up the critter” to go to mill or
country store. The voice of harsh, pitiless rejection smote
on her ear for the first time , and it seemed to her the drop
too much in her cup. She turned her face to the wall and
Oldtown Folks . 7 , 8

114

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

said, a O my God, I cannot bear tills ! I cannot, I cannot!”
She would have said, “Let me die,” but that she was tied to
life by the two helpless, innocent ones who shared her misery.
The poorest and most desolate mother feels that her little
children are poorer and more desolate than she; and, how-
ever much her broken spirit may long for the rest of Paradise,
she is held back by the thought that to abide in the flesh is
needful to them.' Even in her uttermost destitution the ap-
proaching shadow of the dark valley was a terror to the poor
soul, — not for her own sake, but for theirs. The idea of a
harsh, unpitiful world arose before her for the first time,
and the thought of leaving her little ones in it unprotected
was an anguish which rent her heart.

The little girl, over-weary, had eaten her supper and
fallen asleep beside her, with the trusting, ignorant rest of
early childhood; but her boy sat by her bedside with that
look of precocious responsibility, that air of anxious thought,
which seems unnatural in early childhood, and contrasted
painfully with the slight childish figure, the little hands , and
little voice. He was, as we have said, but nine years of age,
well grown of his years , but with that style of growth which
indicates delicacy of fibre rather than strength of organisa-
tion. His finely formed head, with its clustering curls of
yellow hair, his large clear blue eyes, his exquisitely delicate
skin, and the sensitiveness betrayed by his quivering lips,
spoke of a lineage of gentle blood, and an organisation fitted
rather to aesthetic and intellectual development than to sturdy
material toil. The little girl, as she lay sleeping, was a
beautiful picture. Her head was a wilderness of curls of a
golden auburn, and the defined pencilling of the eyebrows,
and the long silken veil of the lashes that fell over the sleep-
ing eyes , the delicate polished skin , and the finely-moulded
limbs, all indicated that 6he was one who ought to have been

Digitized by Google

OLD CRAB SMITH,

115

among the jewels, rather than among the potsherds of this
mortal life. And these were the children that she was going
to leave alone , without a single friend and protector in this
world. For there are intuitions that come to the sick and
dying which tell them when the end is near; and as this
wanderer sunk down upon her bed this night, there had fallen
upon her mind a perfect certainty that she should never be
carried thence till carried to the grave ; and it was this which
had given her soul so deadly a wrench, and caused her to cry
out in such utter agony.

What happens to desolate souls , who , thus forsaken by
all the world, cry out to God, is a mystery, good brother and
sister, which you can never fathom until you have been exactly
where they are. But certain it is that there is a very near
w r ay to God’s heart , and so to the great heart of all comfort,
that sometimes opens like a shaft of light between heaven
and the soul, in hours when everything earthly falls away
from us. A quaint old writer has said, “God keeps His
choicest cordials for the time of our deepest faintings.” And
so it came to pass that, as this poor woman closed her eyes
and prayed earnestly, there fell a strange clearness into her
soul, which calmed every fear, and hushed the voice of every
passion, and she lay for a season as if entranced. Words of
holy writ, heard years ago in church-readings, in the hours
of unconscious girlhood , now seemed to come back , borne in
with a living power on her soul. It seemed almost as if a
voice within was saying to her: ‘^The Lord hath called thee
as a woman forsaken and grieved in spirit, and a wife of
youth, when thou wast refused, saith thy God. For a small
moment have I forsaken thee , but with great mercies will I
gather thee. In a little wrath I hid my face from thee for a
moment, but with everlasting kindness will I have mercy on
thee, saith the Lord thy Redeemer. 0 thou afflicted , tossed

8 *

116

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

with tempest, and not comforted, behold, I will lay thy stones
with fair colours , and thy foundations with sapphires. And
all thy children shall be taught of the Lord , and great shall
be the peace of thy children.”

It is fashionable now to speak of words like these as frag-
ments of ancient Hebrew literature, interesting and curious
indeed, but relating to scenes, events, and states of society
long gone by. But it is a most remarkable property of this
old Hebrew literature , that it seems to be enchanted with a
divine and living power, which strikes the nerve of individual
consciousness in every desolate and suffering soul. It may
have been Judah or Jerusalem ages ago to whom these words
first came , but as they have travelled down for thousands of
years , they have seemed to tens of thousands of sinking and
desolate souls as the voice of God to them individually.
They have raised the burden from thousands of crushed
spirits; they have been as the dayspring to thousands of per-
plexed wanderers. Ah ! let us treasure these old words , for
as of old Jehovah chose to dwell in a tabernacle in the
wilderness, and between the cherubim in the temple, so now
He dwells in them; and to the simple soul that seeks for
Him here He will look forth as of old from the pillar of cloud
and of fire.

The poor, ill-used, forsaken, forgotten creature who lay
there trembling on the verge of life felt the presence of that
mighty and generous, that godlike spirit that inspired these
words. And surely if Jehovah ever did speak to man, no
words were ever more worthy of Him. She lay as in a
blessed trance, as passage after passage from the Scriptures
rolled over her mind, like bright waves from the ocean of
eternal peace.

“Fear thou not, for I am with thee; be not dismayed, for
I am thy God. When thou passest through the waters I will

OLD CRAB SMITH.

117

be with thee, and through the rivers, they shall not overflow
thee. When thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be
burned, neither shall the flame kindle upon thee; for I am the
Lord thy God, the Holy One of Israel, thy Saviour.”

The little boy , who had heard his mother’s first distress-
ful cry, sat by her anxiously watching the changes of her
face as she lay there. He saw her brow gradually grow clear
and calm , and every line of trouble fade from her face , as
shadows and clouds roll up from the landscape at day-dawn,
till at last there was a rapt , peaceful expression , an evenness
of breathing, as if she slept, and were dreaming some
heavenly dream. It lasted for more than an hour, and the
child sat watching her with the old, grave, tender look which
had come to be the fashion of his little face when he looked
upon his mother.

This boy had come to this mother as a second harvest of
heart, hope, and joy, after the first great love and hope of
womanhood had vanished. She felt herself broken-hearted,
lonely , and unloved, when her first-born son was put into her
arms, and she received him as did the first mother, saying,
“I have gotten a man from the Lord.” To him her desolate
heart had unfolded its burden of confidence from the first
dawning hours of intelligence. His tiny faculties had been
widened to make room for her sorrows, and his childish
strength increased by her leaning. There had been hours
when this boy had stood between the maniac rage of a
drunken father and the cowering form of liis mother, with an
unchildlike courage and steadiness that seemed almost like
an inspiration. In days of desertion and poverty he had gone
out with their slender stock of money and made bargains
such as it is pitiful to think that a little child should know
how to make; and often, in moments when his mother’s heart
was overwhelmed , he would come to her side with the little

118

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

*

prayers and hymns which she had taught him, and revive her *
faith and courage when it seemed entirely gone.

Now, as he thought her sleeping, he began with anxious
care to draw the coverlet over her, and to move his little
sister back upon the bed. She opened her eyes, — large, clear
blue eyes, the very mirror of his own, — and, smiling with a
strange sweetness , stretched out her hand and drew him to-
wards her. “Harry, my dear good boy, my dear, dear child,
nobody knows what a comfort you have been to me.”

Then holding him from her, and looking intently in his
eyes, she seemed to hesitate for words to tell him something
that lay on her mind. At last she said, “Harry, say your
prayers and psalms.”

The child knelt by the bed , with his hands clasped in his
mother’s, and said the Lord’s Prayer, and then, standing up,
repeated the beautiful psalm beginning, “The Lord is my
shepherd.” Then followed a hymn, which the Methodist had
made familiar in those times : —

“ One there is above all others

Well deserves the name of Friend;

His is love beyond a brother’s,

Costly, free, and knows no end.

“Which of all our friends, to save us,

Could or would have shed his blood?

But this Saviour died to have us
Reconciled in Him to God.

“When Ho lived on earth abased ,

Friend of Sinners was His name ;

Now, above all glory raised ,

He rejoiceth in the same.

“Oh for grace our hearts to soften!

Teach us , Lord , at length to love ;

We, alas! forget too often
What a Friend we have above.”

“Harry,” said his mother, looking at him with an intense
earnestness, “I want to tell you something. God, our Father,

Digitized by Google

OLD CRAB SMITH.

119

has called me to come home to Him; and I am going. In a
little while — perhaps to-morrow — I shall be gone, and you
cannot find me. My soul will go to God, and they will put
my body in the ground ; and then you will have no friend but
Jesus, and no father but the Father in heaven.”

The child looked at her with solemn, dilated gaze, not
really comprehending the full mystery of that which she was
trying to explain ; yet the tears starting in his eyes , and the
twitching of the muscles of his mouth , showed that he partly
understood.

“Mother,” he said, “will papa never come back?”

“No, Harry, never. He has left us and gone away. He
does not love us, — nobody loves us but our Father in heaven ;
but He does. You must always believe this. Now, Harry,
I am going to leave your little sister to your care. You must
always keep with her and take care of her, for she is a very
little girl.”

“Yes, mother.”

“This is a great charge for a little boy like you; but you
will live and grow up to be a man, and I want you never, as
long as you live , to forget what I say to you now. Promise
me , Hariy, all your life to say these prayers and hymns that
you have just been saying, every morning and every night.
They are all I have to leave you; but if you only believe
them, you will never be without comfort, no matter what
happens to you. Promise me , dear.”

“Yes, mother, I will.”

“And, Harry, no matter what happens, never doubt that
God loves you, — never forget that you have a Friend in
heaven. Whenever you have a trouble, just pray to Him,
and He will help you. Promise this.”

“Yes, mother.”

“Now lie down by me, I am very, very tired.”

120

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

The little boy lay down by his mother; she threw her
arms around him, and both sunk to sleep.

i

CHAPTER VIII.

Miss Asphyxia.

“There won’t be no great profit in this ’ere these ten
year.”

The object denominated “this ’ere” was the golden-haired
child whom we have spoken of before , — the little girl whose
mother lay dying. That mother is dead now; and the thing
to be settled is, What is to be done with the children? The
morning after the scene we have described looked in at the
window and saw the woman with a pale, placid face, sleeping
as one who has found eternal rest, and the two weeping
children striving in vain to make her hear.

Old Crab had been up early in his design of “ carting the
’hull lot over to the poor-house,” but made a solemn pause
when his wife drew him into the little chamber. Death has
a strange dignity, and whatsoever child of Adam he lays his
hand on is for the time ennobled, — removed from the region
of the earthly and commonplace to that of the spiritual and
mysterious. And when Crab found , by searching the little
bundle of the deceased, that there was actually money enough
in it to buy a coffin and pay ’Zekiel Stebbins for digging the
grave , he began to look on the woman as having made a re-
spectable and edifying end, and the whole affair as coming to
a better issue than he had feared.

And so the event was considered in the neighbourhood, in
a melancholy way , rather an interesting and auspicious one.
It gave something to talk about in a region where exciting
topics were remarkably scarce. The Reverend Jabez Peri-
winkle found in it a moving Providence which started him

>1188 ASPHYXIA.

121

favourably on a sermon, and the funeral had been quite a
windfall to all the gossips about; and now remained the
question, What was to be done with the children?

“Now that we are diggin’ the ’tatcrs,” said old Crab,
“that ’ere chap might be good for suthin’, pickin’ on ’em out
o’ the hills. Poor folks like us can’t afford to keep nobody
jest to look at, and so he’ll have to step spry and work smart
to airn his keep.” And so at early dawn, the day after the
funeral, the little boy was roused up and carried into the
fields with the men.

But “ this ’ere ” — that is to say, a beautiful little girl of
seven years — had greatly puzzled the heads of the worthy
gossips of the neighbourhood. Miss Asphyxia Smith, the
elder sister of old Crab, was at this moment turning the
child round , and examining her through a pair of large horn
spectacles, with a view to “taking her to raise,” as she
phrased it.

Now all Miss Asphyxia’s ideas of the purpose and aim of
human existence were comprised in one word, — work. She
was herself a working machine , always wound up and going,
— up at early cock-crowing, and busy till bedtime, with a
rampant and fatiguing industry that never paused for a mo-
ment. She conducted a large farm by the aid of a hired man,
and drove a flourishing dairy, and was universally respected
in the neighbourhood as a smart woman.

Latterly, as her young cousin, who had shared the toils of
the house with her, had married and left her, Miss Asphyxia
had talked of “takin’ a child from the poor-house, and so
raisin’ her own help;” and it was with the view of this
“raisin’ her help,” that she was thus turning over and in-
specting the little article which we have spoken of.

Apparently she was somewhat puzzled , and rather scan-

122

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

dalised , that nature should evidently have expended so much
in a merely ornamental way on an article which ought to
have been made simply for service. She brushed up a
handful of the clustering curls in her large , bony hand , and
said, with a sniff, “These’ll have to come right off to begin
with; gracious me, what a tangle!”

“Mother always brushed them out every day,” said the
child.

“ And who do you suppose is going to spend an hour every
day brushing your hair, Miss Pert?” said Miss Asphyxia.
“That ain’t what I take ye for, I tell you. You’ve got to
learn to work for your living; and you ought to be thankful
if I’m willing to show you how.”

The little girl did not appear particularly thankful. She
bent her soft, pencilled eyebrows in a dark frown, and her
great hazel eyes had gathering in them a cloud of sullen
gloom. Miss Asphyxia did not mind her frowning, — perhaps
did not notice it. She had it settled in her mind , as a first
principle, that children never liked anything that was good
for them, and that, of course, if she took a child, it would
have to be made to come to her by forcible proceedings
promptly instituted. So she set her little subject before her
by seizing her by her two shoulders and squaring her round
and looking in her face, and opened direct conversation with
her in the following succinct manner.

“ What’s your name?”

Then followed a resolved and gloomy silence, as the large
bright eyes surveyed , with a sort of defiant glance , the in-
quisitor.

“Don’t you hear?” said Miss Asphyxia, giving her a
shake.

“Don’t be so harsh with her,” said the little old woman.

%

Digitized by Google

MISS ASPHYXIA.

123

“Say, my little dear, tell Miss Asphyxia your name,” she
added, taking the d^hd’s hand.

“Eglantine Percival,” said the little girl, turning towards
the old woman , as if she disdained to answer the other party
in the conversation.

“Wh — a — t?” said Miss Asphyxia. “If there ain’t the
beatin’est name ever I heard. Well, I tell you I ain’t got
time to fix my mouth to say all that ’ere every time I want ye,
now I tell ye.”

“Mother and Harry called me Tina,” said the child.

“Teny! Well, I should think so,” said Miss Asphyxia.
“That showed she’d got a grain o’ sense left, anyhow.
She’s tol’rable strong and well-limbed for her age,” added
that lady, feeling of the child’s arms and limbs; “her flesh
is solid. I think she’ll make a strong woman, only put her
to work early and keep her at it. I could rub out clothes at
the wash-tub afore I was at her age.”

“ Oil, she can do considerable many little chores,” said old
Crab’s wife.

“Yes,” said Miss Asphyxia; “there can a good deal be
got out of a child if you keep at ’em, hold ’em in tight, and
never let ’em have their head a minute ; push right hard on
behind ’em , and you get considerable. That’s the way I was
raised.”

“But I want to play,” said the little girl, bursting out in
a sobbing storm of mingled fear and grief.

“Want to play, do you? Well, you must get over that.
Don’t you know that that’s as bad as stealing? You haven’t
got any money, and if you eat folks’s bread and butter, you’ve
got to work to pay for it; and if folks buy your clothes,
you’ve got to work to pay for them.”

“But I’ve got some clothes of my own,” persisted the
child, determined not to give up her case entirely.

124 *

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

4 *

“Well, so you have; but there ain’t no sort of wear in
’em,” said Miss Asphyxia, turning to#lrs. Smith. “Them
two dresses o’ hern might answer for Sundays and sieh , but
I ’ll have to make her up a regular linsey working dress this
fall, and check aprons ; and she must set right about knitting
every minute she isn’t doing anything else. Did you ever
learn how to knit?”

“No,” said the child.

“Or to sew?” said Miss Asphyxia.

“Yes; mother taught me to sew,” said the child.

“No! Yes! Hain’t you learned manners? Do you say
yes and no to people?”

The child stood a moment, swelling with suppressed feeling,
and at last she opened her great eyes full on Miss Asphyxia,
and said, “I don’t like you. You ain’t pretty, and I won’t
go with you.”

“Oh now,” said Mrs. Smith, “little girls mustn’t talk so;
that’s naughty.”

“Don’t like me? — ain’t I pretty?” said Miss Asphyxia,
with a short, grim laugh. “Maybe I ain’t; but I know what
I’m about, and you'd as good know it first as last. I’m
going to take ye right out with me in the waggin, and you’d
best not have none of your cuttin’s up. I keep a stick at
home for naughty girls. Why , where do you suppose you’re
going to get your livin’ if I don’t take you?”

“1 want to live with Harry,” said the child, sobbing.
“Where is Harry?”

“Harry’s to work, — and there’s where he’s got to be,”
said Miss Asphyxia. “He’s got to work with the men in
the fields, and you’ve got to come home and work with
me.”

“I want to stay with Harry, — Harry takes care of me,”
said the child , in a piteous tone, *

Digitized by Google

MISS ASPHYXIA.

*125

Old Mother Smith now toddled to her milk -room, and,
with a melting heart., brought out a doughnut. “ There now,
eat that,” she said; “and mebbe, if you’re good, Miss
Asphyxia will bring you down here sometime.”

“Oh, laws, Polly, you allers was a fool!” said Miss
Asphyxia. “It’s all for the child’s good, and what’s the
use of fussin’ on her up? She’ll come to it when she knows
she’s got to. ’Tain’t no more than I was put to at her age,
only the child’s been fooled with and babied.”

The little one refused the doughnut, and seemed to gather
herself up in silent gloom.

“Come, now, don’t stand sulking; let me put your bonnet
on,” said Miss Asphyxia, in a brisk, metallic voice. “I can’t
be losin’ the best part of my day with this nonsense!” And
forthwith she clawed up the child in her bony grasp, as easily
as an eagle might truss a chick-sparrow.

“Be a good little girl, now,” said the little gray woman,
who felt a strange swelling and throbbing in her poor old
breast. To be sure, she knew she was a fool; her husband
had told her so at least three times every day for years ; and
Miss Asphyxia only confirmed what she accepted familiarly
as the truth. But yet she could not help these unprofitable
longings to coddle and comfort something, — to do some of
those little motherly tendernesses for children which go to
no particular result, only to make them happy; so she ran
out after the waggon with a tempting seed-cake, and forced
it into the child’s hand.

“Take it, do take it,” she said; “e&t it, and be a good
girl , and do just as she tells you to.”

“I’ll see to that,” said Miss Asphyxia, as she gathered up
the reins and gave a cut to her horse, which started that
quadruped from a dream of green grass into a most animated
pace. Every creature in her service — horse, cow, and pig —

126

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

knew at once the touch of Mis6 Asphyxia , and the necessity
of being up and doing when she was behind them; and the
horse, who under other hands would have been the slowest
and most reflective of beasts, now made the little waggon
spin and bounce over the rough, stony road, so that the
child’s short legs flew up in the air every few moments.

“You must hold on tight,” was Miss Asphyxia’s only com-
ment on this circumstance. “If you fall out, you’ll break
your neck ! ”

It was a glorious day of early autumn , the sun shining as
only an autumn sun knows how to shine. The blue fields
of heaven were full of fleecy flocks of clouds , drifting hither
and thither at their lazy will. The golden-rod and the aster
hung their plumage over the rough, rocky road; and now
and then it wound through a sombre piece of woods, where
scarlet sumachs and maples flashed out among the gloomy
green hemlocks with a solemn and gorgeous light. So very
fair was the day , and so full of life and beauty was the land-
scape , that the child , who came of a beauty-loving lineage,
felt her little heart drawn out from under its burden of
troubles , and springing and bounding with that elastic habit
of happiness which seems hard to kill in children.

Once she laughed out as a squirrel , with his little chops
swelled with a nut on each side, sat upon the fence and
looked after them , and then whisked away behind the stone
wall; and once she called out, “Oh, how pretty!” at a
splendid clump of blue fringed gentian , which stood holding
up its hundred azure vases by the wayside. “Oh, I do wish
I could get some of that!” she cried out, impulsively.

“Some of what?” said Miss Asphyxia.

“Oh, those beautiful flowers!” said the child, leaning far
out to look back.

“Oh, that’s nothing but gentian,” said Miss Asphyxia;

MISS ASPHYXIA.

127

“ can’t stop for that. Them blows is good to dry for weak-
ness,” she added. “By and by, if you’re good, mebbe I’ll
let you get some on ’em.”

Miss Asphyxia had one word for all flowers. She called
them all “blows,” and they were divided in her mind, in a
manner far more simple than any botanical system , into two
classes; namely, blows that were good to dry, and blows
that were not. Elder-blow, catnip, hoarhound, hardhack,
gentian, ginseng, and various other vegetable tribes, she
knew well and had a great respect for; but all the other little
weeds that put on obtrusive colours and flaunted in the
summer breeze, without any pretensions to further usefulness,
Miss Asphyxia completely ignored. It would not be de-
scribing her state to say she had a contempt for them: she
simply never saw or thought of them at all. The idea of
beauty as connected with any of them never entered her
mind, — it did not exist there.

The young cousin who shared her housework had , to be
sure, planted a few flowers in a corner of the garden; there
were some peonies and pinks and a rose-bush, which often
occupied a spare hour of the girl’s morning or evening; but
Miss Asphyxia watched these operations with a sublime con-
tempt, and only calculated the loss of potatoes and carrots
caused by this unproductive beauty. Since the marriage of
this girl, Miss Asphyxia had often spoken to her man about
“ clearing out them things ; ” but somehow he always managed
to forget it, and the thriftless beauties still remained.

It wanted but about an hour of noon when Miss Asphyxia
set down the little girl on the clean-scrubbed floor of a great
kitchen, where everything was even desolately orderly and
neat. She swung her at once into a chair. “Sit there,” she
said, “till I’m ready to see to ye.” And then, marching up

128 .

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

to lier own room, she laid aside her bonnet, and, coming down
. plunged into active preparations for the dinner.

An irrepressible feeling of desolation came over the child.
The elation produced by the ride died away; and, as she sat
dangling her heels from the chair, and watching the dry,
grim form of Miss Asphyxia, a soil of terror of her began
slowly to usurp the place of that courage which had at first
inspired the child to rise up against the assertion of so un-
congenial a power.

All the strange, dreadful events of the last few days
mingled themselves, in her childish mind, in a weird mass
of uncomprehended gloom and mystery. Her mother, so
changed, — cold , stiff, lifeless , neither smiling nor speaking
nor looking at her; the people coming to the house, and
* talking and singing and praying, and then putting her in a
box in the ground, and saying that she was dead; and then,
right upon that, to be torn from her brother, to whom she
had always looked for protection and counsel, — all this
seemed a weird, inexplicable cloud coming over her heart
and darkening all her little life. Where was Harry? Why
did he let them take her? Or perhaps equally dreadful
people had taken him, and would never bring him back
again.

There was a tall black clock in a corner of the kitchen,
that kept its invariable monotone of tick-tack, tick-tack, with
a persistence that made her head swim ; and she watched the
quick, decisive movements of Miss Asphyxia with somewhat
of the same respectful awe with which one watches the course
of a locomotive engine.

It was late Jor Miss Asphyxia’s dinner preparations , but
she instituted prompt measures to make up for lost time. She
flew about the kitchen with such long-armed activity and
fearful celerity, that the child began instinctively to duck and

Digitized by Google

MISS ASPHYXIA.

129

bob her little head when she went by , lest she should hit her
and knock her off her chair.

Miss Asphyxia raked open the fire in the great kitchen
chimney , and built it up with a liberal supply of wood ; then
she rattled into the back room , and a sound was heard of a
bucket descending into a well with such frantic haste as only
an oaken bucket under Miss Asphyxia’s hands could be
frightened into. Back she came with a stout black iron tea-
kettle, which she hung over the fire; and then, flopping down
a ham on the table, she cut off slices with a martial and
determined air, as if she would like to see the ham try to help
itself; and , before the child could fairly see what she was
doing, the slices of ham were in the frying-pan over the coals,
the ham hung up in its place , the knife wiped and put out of
sight, and the table drawn out into the middle of the floor,
and invested with a cloth for dinner.

During these operations the child followed every move-
ment with awe-struck eyes , and studied with trembling at-
tention every feature of this wonderful woman.

Miss Asphyxia was tall and spare. Nature had made her,
as she often remarked of herself, entirely for use. She had
allowed for her muscles no cushioned repose of fat, no re-
dundant smootlmess of outline. There was nothing to her
but good, strong, solid bone, and tough, wiry, well-strung
muscle. She was past fifty, and her hair was already well
streaked with gray, and so thin that, when tightly combed
and tied , it still showed bald cracks , not very sightly to the
eye. The only thought that Miss Asphyxia ever had in
relation to the coiffure of her hair was that it was to be got
out of her way. Hair she considered principally as some-
thing that might get into people’s eyes , if not properly at-
tended to ; and accordingly, at a very early hour every morn-
ing, she tied all hers in a very tight knot, and then secured
Oldtoivn Folks. J. 9

130

OLDTOWN POLKS.

it by a horn comb on the top of her head. To tie this knot
so tightly that, once done, it should last all day, was Miss
Asphyxia’s only art of the toilet, and she tried her work
every morning by giving her head a shake , before she left
her looking-glass, 'not unlike that of an unruly cow. If this
process did not start the horn comb from its moorings , Miss
Asphyxia was well pleased. For the rest, her face was dusky
and wilted, — guarded by gaunt, high cheek-bones, and
watched over by a pair of small gray eyes of unsleeping
vigilance. The shaggy eyebrows that overhung them were
grizzled, like her hair.

♦ It would not be proper to say that Miss Asphyxia looked
ill-tempered; but her features could never, by any stretch of
imagination, be supposed to wear an expression of tender-
ness. They were set in an austere, grim gravity, whose lines
had become more deeply channelled by every year of her
life. As related to her fellow-creatures , she was neither
passionate nor cruel. We have before described her as a
working machine, for ever wound up to high-pressure work-
ing-point; and this being her nature, she trod down and
crushed whatever stood in the way of her work, with as little
compunction as if she had been a steam-engine or a power-
loom.

Miss Asphyxia had a full conviction of what a recent
pleasant writer has denominated the total depravity of
matter. She was not given to many words, but it might
often be gathered from her brief discourses that she had al-
ways felt herself, so to speak, sword in hand against a
universe where everything was running to disorder, — every-
thing was tending to slackness, shiftlessness, unthrift, and
she alone was left on the earth to keep things in their places.
Her hired men were always too late up in the morning, — al-
ways shirking, — always taking too long a nap at noon; every-

MISS ASPHYXIA.

131

body was watching to cheat her in every bargain; her horse,
cow , pigs, — all her possessions, — were ready at the slightest
winking of her eye , or relaxing of her watch , to fall into all
sorts of untoward ways and gyrations; and therefore she
slept, as it were, in her armour, and spent her life as a sentinel
on duty.

In taking a child, she had had her eyes open only to one
patent fact, — that a child was an animal who would always
be wanting to play, and that she must make all her plans
and calculations to keep her from playing. To this end she
had beforehand given out word to her brother, that, if she
took the girl , the boy must be kept away. “ Got enough on
my hands now, without havin’ a boy trainin’ round my house,
and upsettin’ all creation,” said the grim virgin.

“ Wal, wal,” said Old Crab, “’taint best; they’ll be a con-
sultin’ together, and cuttin’ up didos. I’ll keep the boy tight
enough, I tell you.”

Little enough was the dinner that the child ate that day.
There were two hulking, square -shouldered men at the table,
who stared at her with great round eyes like oxen ; and so,
though Miss Asphyxia dumped down Indian pudding, ham,
and fried potatoes before her , the child’s eating was scarcely
that of a blackbird.

Marvellous to the little girl was the celerity with which
Miss Asphyxia washed and cleared up the dinner dishes.
How the dishes rattled, the knives and forks clinked, as she
scraped, and piled, and washed, and wiped, and put every-
thing in a trice back into such perfect place, that it looked
as if nothing had ever been done on the premises !

After this Miss Asphyxia produced thimble, thread,
needle , and scissors , and drawing out of a closet a bale of
coarse blue home-made cloth, proceeded to measure the little
girl for a petticoat and short gown of the same. This being

9 *

Digitized by Google

132

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

done to lier mind, she dumped her into a chair beside her,
and, putting a brown towel into her hands to be hemmed,
she briefly said, “There, keep to work;” while she, with
great despatch and resolution, set to work on the little gar-
ments aforesaid.

The child once or twice laid down her work to watch the
chickens who came up round the door, or to note a bird which
flew by with a little ripple of song. The first time, Miss
Asphyxia only frowned and said, “Tut, tut.” The second
time, there came three thumps of Miss Asphyxia’s thimble
down on the little head, with the admonition, “Mind your
work.” The child now began to cry, but Miss Asphyxia soon
put an end to that by displaying a long birch rod, with a
threatening movement, and saying, succinctly, “Stop that,
this minute, or I’ll whip you.” And the child was so certain
of this that she swallowed her grief and stitched away as fast
as her little fingers could go.

As soon as supper was over that night, Miss Asphyxia
seized upon the child , and taking her to a tub in the sink-
room, proceeded to divest her of her garments and subject
her to a most thorough ablution.

“ I’m goin’ to give you one good scrubbin’ to start with,”
said Miss Asphyxia; and, truth to say, no word could more
thoroughly express the character of the ablution than the
term “scrubbing.” The poor child was deluged with soap
and water, in mouth , nose , ears, and eyes, while the great
bony hands rubbed and splashed, twisted her arms, turned
her ears wrong side out, and dashed on the water with un-
sparing vigour. Nobody can tell the torture which can be
inflicted on a child in one of these vigorous old New England
washings, which used to make Saturday night a terror in
good families. But whatever they were, the little martyr was
by this time so thoroughly impressed with the awful reality

MISS ASPHYXIA.

133

of Miss Asphyxia’s power over her, that she endured all with
only a few long-drawn and convulsed sighs , and an inaudible
“Oh dear!”

When well scrubbed and wiped , Miss Asphyxia put on a
coarse homespun nightgown, and pinning a cloth round the
child’s neck , began with her scissors the work of cutting off
her hair. Snip, snip, went the fatal shears, and down into
the towel fell bright curls, once the pride of a mother’s heart,
till finally the small head was despoiled completely. Then
Miss Asphyxia, shaking up a bottle of camphor, proceeded
to mb some vigorously upon the child’s head. “There,” she
said, “that’s to keep ye from catchin’ cold.”

She then proceeded to the kitchen , raked open the fire,
and shook the golden curls into the bed of embers, and stood
grimly over them while they seethed and twisted and writhed,
as if they had been living things suffering a fiery torture,
meanwhile picking diligently at the cloth that had contained
them that no stray hair might escape.

“ I wonder now ,” she said to herself, “ if any of this will
rise and get into the next pudding?” She spoke with a spice
of bitterness, poor woman, as if it would be just the way
things usually went on, if it did.

She buried the fire carefully , and then opening the door
of a small bedroom adjoining, which displayed a single bed,
she said, “Now, get into bed.”

The child immediately obeyed , thankful to hide herself
under the protecting folds of a blue checked coverlet, and
feeling that at last the dreadful Miss Asphyxia would leave
her to herself.

Miss Asphyxia clapped to the door , and the child drew a
long breath. In a moment, however, the door flew open. Miss
Asphyxia had forgotten something. “Can you say your
prayers?” she demanded.

134

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

“Yes, ma’am,” said the child.

“ Say’em , then ,” said Miss Asphyxia ; and bang went the
door again.

“There, now, if I hain’t done up my duty to that child,
then I don’t know,” said Miss Asphyxia.

4 CHAPTER IX.

Harry’s First Day’s Work.

It was the fashion of olden times to consider children only '
as children pure and simple; not as having any special and
individual nature which required special and individual
adaptation, but as being simply so many little creatures to be
washed, dressed, schooled, fed, and whipped according to
certain general and well-understood rules.

The philosophy of modern society is showing to parents
and educators how delicate and how varied is their task ; but
in the days we speak of nobody had thought of these
shadings and variations. It is perhaps true, that in that very
primitive and simple state of society there were fewer of
those individual peculiarities which are the result of the
stimulated brains and nervous systems of modem society.

Be that as it may, the little parish of Needmore saw
nothing in the fact that two orphan children had fallen into
the hands of Crab Smith and his sister, Miss Asphyxia, which
appeared to its moral sense as at all unsuitable. To be sure,
there was a suppressed shrug of the shoulders at the idea of
the little fair-haired , pleasant-mannered boy being given up
to old Crab. People said to each other, with a knowing grin,
“That ’ere boy’d have to toe the mark pretty handsome; but
then, he might do wus. He’d have enough to eat and drink
anyhow, and old Ma’am Smith, she’d mother him. As to Miss

i

Digitized by Google

harry’s first day’s work.

135

Asphyxia and the girl, why, ’twas jest the thing. She was jest
the hand to raise a smart girl.”

In fact, we are not certain that Miss Asphyxia, with a
few modifications and fashionable shadings suitable for our
modern society, is not, after all, the ideal personage who
would get all votes as just the proper person to take charge
of an orphan asylum, — would be recommended to widowers
with large families as just the woman to bring up their
children.

Efficiency has always been, in our New England, the
golden calf before which we have fallen down and worshipped .
The great granite formation of physical needs and wants that
underlie life in a country with a hard soil and a severe
climate , give an intensity to our valuation of what pertains
to the working of the direct and positive force that controls,
the physical — and can keep in constant order the eating,
drinking , and wearing of this mortal body — is always assert-
ing itself in every department of life as the true wisdom.

But what, in fact, were the two little children who had
been thus seized on and appropriated?

The boy was, as we have described, of a delicate and
highly nervous organisation — sensitive, esthetic — evidently
fitted by nature more for the poet or scholar than for the
rough grind of physical toil. There had been superinduced
on this temperament a precocious development from the cir-
cumstance of his having been made, during the earliest years
of his consciousness, the companion of his mother. Nothing
unfolds a child faster than being thus taken into the com-
panionship of older minds in the first years of life. He was
naturally one of those manly, good-natured, even-tempered
children that are the delight of nurses and the staff and stay
of mothers. Early responsibility and sorrow, and the religious
teachings of his mother, had awakened the spiritual part of

136

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

his nature to a higher consciousness than usually exists in
childhood. There was about him a steady, uncorrupted
goodness and faithfulness of nature , a simple , direct truth-
fulness, and a loyal habit of prompt obedience to elders,
which made him one of those children likely, in every
position of child-life, to be favourites, and to run a smooth
course.

The girl, on the contrary, had in her all the elements of a
little bundle of womanhood, born to rule and command in
a pure womanly way. She was affectionate, gay, pleasure-
loving, self-willed, imperious, intensely fond of approbation,
with great stores of fancy, imagination, and an under-heat of
undeveloped passion that would , in future life , give warmth
and colour to all her thoughts, as a volcanic soil is said to
brighten the hues of flowers and warm the flavour of grapes.
She had , too , that capacity of secretiveness which enabled
her to carry out the dictates of a strong will, and an intuitive
sense of where to throw a tendril or strike a little fibre of
persuasion or coaxing , which comes early to those fair par-
asites who are to live by climbing upon others, and to draw
their hues and sweetness from the warmth of other hearts.
The moral and religious faculties were as undeveloped in her
as in a squirrel or a robin. She had lived, in fact, between
her sorrowing mother and her thoughtful little brother, as a
beautiful pet, whose little gladsome ways and gay pranks
were the only solace of their poverty. Even the father, in
good-natured hours, had caressed her, played with her, told
her stories , and allowed all her little audacities and liberties
with an indulgence that her brother could not dare to hope
for. No service or self-denial had ever been required of her.
She had been served , with a delicate and exact care, by both
mother and brother.

Such were the two little specimens of mortality which the

tiarry’s first day’s work.

137

town of Needmore thought well provided for when they were
consigned to Crab Smith and Miss Asphyxia.

The first day after the funeral of his mother, the boy had
been called up before light in the morning, and been oif at
sunrise to the fields with the men; but he had gone with a
heart of manly enterprise, feeling as if he were beginning life
on his own account, and meaning, with straightforward sim-
plicity, to do his best.

He assented to old Crab’s harsh orders with such obedient
submission, and set about the work given him with such a
steady, manly patience and good-will , as to win for himself,
at the outset, golden opinions from tie hired men, and to
excite in old Crab that discontented satisfaction which he
felt in an employee in whom he could find nothing to scold.
The work of merely picking up the potatoes from the hills
which the men opened was so very simple as to give no chance
for mistake or failure , and the boy was so cheerful and un-
intermitting in his work that no fault could be found under
that head. He was tired enough, it is true, at night; but,
as he rode home in the cart, he solaced himself with the idea
that he was beginning to be a man, and that he should work
and support his sister, — and he had many things to tell her
of the result of his first day’s labour. He wondered that she
did not come to meet him as the cart drove up to the house,
and his first inquiry, when he saw the friendly old woman,
was, “ Where is Tina?”

“ She’s gone to live with Jus sister,” said Mrs. Smith, in an
undertone, pointing to her husband in the back yard. “As-
phyxia’s took her to raise.”

“To what?” said the boy, timidly.

“ Why, to fetch her up, — teach her to work,” said the little
old woman. “But come, sonny, go wash your hands to the

138

OLDTOWN FOLKS,

sink. Dear me! why, you’ve fairly took the skin off your
fingers.”

“I’m not much used to work,” said the boy, “but I don’t
mind it.” And he washed carefully the little hands, which,
sure enough , had the skin somewhat abraded on the finger-
ends.

“Do ye good,” said old Crab. “Mustn’t mind that. Can’t
have no lily-fingered boys workin’ for me.”

The child had not thought of complaining ; but as soon as
he was alone with Mrs. Smith , he came to her confidentially
and said, “How far is it to where Tina lives?”

“Well, it’s the best part of two miles, I calculate.”

“ Can’t I go over there to-night and see her?”

“Dear heart! no, you can’t. Why, your little back must
ache now, and he’ll have you routed up by four o’clock in the
morning.”

“I’m not so very tired,” said the boy; “but I want to see
Tina. If you’ll show me the way, I’ll go.”

“Oh, well, you see, they won’t let you,” said the old
woman , confidentially. “ They are a ha’sli pair of ’em , him
and Sphyxy are; and they’ve settled it that you ain’t to see
each other no more , for fear you’d get to playin’ and idlin’.”
The blood flushed into the boy’s face, and he breathed
short. Something stirred, within him, such as makes slavery
bitter, as he said, “ But that isn’t right. She’s my only sister,
and my mother told me to take care of her; and I ought to
see her sometimes.”

“Lordy massy!” said Goody Smith; “when you’re with
some folks, it don’t make no difference what’s right and what
ain’t. You’ve jest got to do as ye ken. It won’t do to rile
him, I tell iyou. He’s awful, once get his backup.” And
Goody Smith shook her little old head mysteriously, and

haruy’s first day’s work.

139

hushed the boy, as she heard her husband’s heavy tread
coming in from the barn.

The supper of cold beef and pork , potatoes , turnips , and
hard cider, which was now dispensed at the farmhouse, was
ample for all purposes of satisfying hunger; and the little
Harry, tired as he was, ate with a vigorous relish. But his
mind was still dwelling on his sister.

After supper was over he followed Goody Smith into her
milk-room. “Please do ask him to let me go and see Tina,”
he said, persuasively.

“Laws a massy, ye poor dear! ye don’t know the critter.
If I ask him to do a thing, he’s all the more set agin it. I
found out that ’ere years ago. He never does nothin’ I ask
him to. But never mind ; some of these days , we’ll try and
contrive it. When he’s gone to mill, I’ll speak to the men,
and tell ’em to let ye slip off. But then the pester on’t is,
there’s Spliyxy; she’s allers wide awake, and wouldn’t let a
boy come near her house no more than ef he was bull-dog.”

“Why, what harm do boys do?” said the child, to whom
this view presented an entirely new idea.

“Oh, well, she’s an old maid, and kind o’ set in her ways;
and it ain’t easy gettin’ round Spliyxy; but I’ll try and con-
trive it. Sometimes I can get round ’em , and get something
done, when they don’t know nothin’ about it; but it’s drefful
hard gettin’ things done.”

The views thus presented to the child’s mind of the cower-
ing , deceptive policy in which the poor old woman’s whole
married life had been spent, gave him much to think of after
he had gone to his bedroom.

He sat down on his little, lonely bed, and began trying to
comprehend in his own mind the events of the last few days.
He recalled his mother’s last conversation with him. All
had happened just as she had said. She was gone , just as

Digitized by Google

140

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

she had told him , and left him and little Tina alone in the
world. Then he remembered his promise, and, kneeling
down by his bedside, repeated the simple litany — psalm,
prayer, and hymn — which his mother had left him as her
only parting gift. The words soothed his little lonesome
heart; and he thought what his mother said, — he recalled the
look of her dying eyes as she said it, — “ Never doubt that God
loves you, whatever happens; and, if you have any trouble,
pray to Him.” Upon this thought, he added to his prayer
these words, “0 dear Father! they have taken away Tina;
and she’s a very little girl, and cannot work, as I can. Please
do take care of Tina, and make them let me go and see her.”

CHAPTER X.

Miss Asphyxia’s System.

When Miss Asphyxia shut the door finally on little Tina,
the child began slowly to gather up her faculties from the
stunning, benumbing influence of the change which had come
over her life.

In former days her father had told her stories of little
girls that were carried of to giants’ houses , and there mal-
treated and dominated over in veiy dreadful ways; and Miss
Asphyxia presented herself to her as one of these giants.
She was so terribly strong, the child felt instinctively, in every
limb, that there was no getting away from her. Her eyes
were so keen and searching, her voice so sharp, all her move-
ments so full of a vigour that might be felt , that any chance
of getting the better of her by indirect ways seemed hope-
lessly small. If she should try to run away to find Harry,
she was quite sure that Miss Asphyxia could make a long
arm that would reach her before she had gone far; and then *
what she would do to her was a matter that she dared not

miss asphyxia’s system.

141

think of. Even when she was not meaning to be cross to her,
but merely seized and swung her into a chair, she had such
a grip that it almost gave pain; and what would it be if she
seized her in wrath? No; there was evidently no escape;
and, as the thought came over the child, she began to cry, —
first sobbing, and then, as her agitation increased, screaming
audibly.

Miss Asphyxia opened the door. “Stop that!” she said.
“What under the canopy ails ye?”

“1 — want — Harry!” said the child.

“ Well, you can’t have Harry ; and I won’t have ye bawling.
Now shut up and go to sleep, or I’ll whip you!” And, with
that , Miss Asphyxia turned down the bedclothes with a re-
solute hand.

“I will be good, — I will stop,” said the child, in mortal
terror, suppressing the sobs that seemed to tear her little
frame.

Miss Asphyxia waited a moment, and then, going out,
shut the door, and went on making up the child’s stuff gown
outside.

“That ’ere’s goin’ to be a regular limb,” she said; “but I
must begin as I’m goin’ to go on with her, and mebbe she’ll
amount to suthin’ by and by. A child’s pretty much dead
loss the first three or four years ; but after that they more ’n
pay, if they’re fetched up right.”

“Mebbe that ’ere child’s lonesome,” said Sol Peters, Miss
Asphyxia’s hired man, who sat in the kitchen corner, putting
in a new hoe-handle.

“Lonesome!” said Miss Asphyxia, with a sniff of con-
tempt.

“All sorts of young critters is,” said Sol, undismayed by
this sniff. “Puppies is. ’Member how our Spot yelped when
I fust got him? Kept me ’wake the biggest part of one night.

142

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

And kittens mew when ye take ’em from the cats. Yc see
they’s used to other critters; and it’s sort o’ cold like, bein’
alone is.”

“Well, she’ll have to get used to it, anyhow,” said Miss
Asphyxia. “ I guess’t won’t kill her. Ef a child has enough
to eat and drink, and plenty of clothes, and somebody to
take care of ’em, they ain’t very bad off, if they be lone-
some.”

Sol, though a big-fisted, hard-handed fellow, had still
rather a soft spot under his jacket in favour of all young,
defenceless animals , and the sound of the little girl’s cry had
gone right to this spot. So he still revolved the subject, as
he leisurely turned and scraped with a bit of broken glass the
hoe-handle that he was elaborating. After a considerable
pause, he shut up one eye, looked along his hoe-handle at
Miss Asjfiiyxia, as if he were taking aim, and remarked,
“That ’ere boy ’s a nice, stiddy little chap; and mebbe, if he
could come down here once in a while after work-hours,
’twould kind o’ reconcile her.”

“I tell you what, Solomon Peters,” said Miss Asphyxia,
“I’d jest as soon have the great red dragon in the Revelations
a cornin’ down on my house as a boy! Ef I don’t work hard
enough now , I’d like to know , without havin’ a boy raound
raisin’ general Cain. Don’t tell me! I’ll find work enough
to keep that ’ere child from bein’ lonesome. Lonesome! —
there didn’t nobody think of no such things when I was little.
I was jest put right along, and no remarks made; and was
made to mind when I was spoken to, and to take things as
they come. Oh , I’ll find her work enough to keep her mind
occupied, I promise ye.”

Sol did not in the least doubt that, for Miss Asphyxia’s
reputation in the region was perfectly established. She was
spoken of with applause under such titles as “a staver,” “a

Digitized by Google

miss asphyxia’s system.

143

pealer,” “ a roarer to work'/’ and Sol himself had an awful
sense of responsibility to her in this regard. He had arrived
at something of a late era in single life, and had sometimes
been sportively jogged by his associates, at the village store,
as to his opportunity of becoming master of Miss Asphyxia’s
person and property by matrimonial overtures; to all which
he summarily responded by declaring that “a hoss might as
soon go a courtin’ to the liosswhip as he court Miss Sphyxy.”
As to Miss Asphyxia, when rallied on the same subject, she
expressed her views of the matrimonial estate in a sentence
more terse and vigorous than elegant,— that “she knew
t’ much to put her nose into hot swill.” Queen Elizabeth
might have expressed her mind in a more courtly way, but
certainly with no more decision.

The little head and heart in the next room were full of the
rudiments of thoughts, desires, feelings, imaginations, and
passions, which either had never lived in Miss Asphyxia’s
nature, or had died so long ago that not a trace or memory of
them was left. If she had had even the dawnings of certain
traits and properties , she might have doubted of her ability
to bring up a child; but she had not.

Yet Miss Asphyxia’s faults in this respect were not so
widely different from the practice of the hard, rustic inhabi-
tants of Ncedmore as to have prevented her getting employ-
ment as a district school teacher for several terms, when she
was about twenty years of age. She was held to be a
“smart,” economical teacher, inasmuch as she was able to
hold the winter term, and thrash the very biggest boys, and,
while she did the duty of a man , received only the wages of
a woman,— a recommendation in female qualification which
has not ceased to be available in our modern days. Gradually,
by incredible industries, by a faculty of pinching, saving,
and accumulating hard to conceive of, Miss Asphyxia had

144

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

laid up money till she had actually come to be the possessor
of a small but neat house, and a farm and daily in excellent
condition; and she regarded herself, therefore, and was re-
garded by others, as a model for imitation. Did she have
the least doubt that she was eminently fitted to bring up a
girl? I trow not.

Miss Asphyxia, in her early childhood , had been taken to
raise in the same manner that she had taken this child. She
had been trained to early rising, and constant, hard, un-
intermitted work, without thought of respite or amusement.
During certain seasons of the year she had been sent to the
district school, where , always energetic in whatever she took
in hand, she always stood at the head of the school in the
few arts of scholarship in those days taught. She could
write a good round hand; she could cipher with quickness
and adroitness; she had learned by heart all the rules of
“Murray’s Grammar,” notwithstanding the fact that, from
the habits of early childhood , she habitually set at naught
every one of them in her daily conversation, — always streng-
thening all her denials with those good , hearty double nega-
tives which help out French and Italian sentences , and are
unjustly denied to the purists in genteel English. How
much of the droll quaintness of Yankee dialect comes from
the stumbling of human nature into those racy mistakes will
never be known.

Perhaps my readers may have turned over a great flat
stone sometime in their rural rambles, and found under it
little clovers and tufts of grass pressed to earth, flat, white,
and bloodless, but still growing, stretching, creeping towards
the edges , where their plant instinct tells them there is light
and deliverance. The kind of life that the little Tina led,
under the care of Miss Asphyxia, resembled that of these
poor clovers. It was all shut down and repressed , but grow-

miss asphyxia’s system.

145

in g still. She was roused at the first glimmer of early dawn,
dressing herself in the dark, and, coming out, set the table
for breakfast. From that time through the day, one task
followed another in immediate succession, with the sense of
the ever-driving Miss Asphyxia behind her.

Once , in the course of her labours , she let fall a saucer,
while Miss Asphyxia, by good fortune, was out of the room.
To tell of her mischance , and expose herself to the awful
consequences of her anger, was more than her childish
courage was equal to; and, with a quick adroitness, she
slipped the broken fragments in a crevice between the
kitchen doorstep and the house , and endeavoured to look as
if nothing had occurred. Alas! she had not counted on
Miss Asphyxia’s unsleeping vigilance of hearing. She was
down-stairs in a trice.

“What have you been breaking?”

“Nothing, ma’am,” was the trembling response.

# “Don’t tell me! I heard something fall.”

“I think it must have been the tongs,” said the little girl,
— not over- wise or ingenious in her subterfuge.

“Tongs! likely stoiy,” said Miss Asphyxia, keenly run-
ning her eye over the cups and saucers.

“One, two, — here’s one of the saucers gone. What have
you done with it?”

The child, now desperate with fear, saw no refuge but in
persistent denial, till Miss Asphyxia, seizing her, threatened
immediate whipping if she did not at once confess.

“I dropped a saucer,” at last said the frightened child.

“ You did, you little slut! ” said Miss Asphyxia, administer-
ing a box on her ear. “Where is it? What have you done
with the pieces?”

“I dropped them down by the door-step,” said the sobbing
culprit.

Oldtoim Folks. 1,

10

146

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

A

Miss Asphyxia soon fished them up., and held them up in
awful judgment. “ You’ve been telling me a lie, — a naughty,
wicked lie,” she said. “I’ll soon cure you of lying. I’ll scour
your mouth out for you.” And forthwith, taking a rag with
some soap and sand , she grasped the child’s head under her
arm, and rubbed the harsh mixture through her mouth with
avengeful energy. “There, now, see if you’ll tell me an-
other lie,” said she, pushing her from her. “Don’t you know
where liars go to, you naughty, wicked girl? 1 All liars shall
have their part in the lake that burns with fire and brim-
stone,’ — that’s what the Bible says*, and you may thank me
for keeping you from going there. Now go and get up the
potatoes and wash ’em , and don’t let me get another lie out
of your mouth as long as you five.”

There was a burning sense of shame — a smothered fury
of resentment — in the child’s breast, and, as she took the
basket, she felt as if she would have liked to do some mis-
chief to Miss Asphyxia. “I hate you, 1 hate you, 1 hate
you,” she said to herself when she got into the cellar, and
fairly out of hearing. “ 1 hate you, and when 1 get to be a
woman, I’ll pay you for all this.”

Miss Asphyxia, however, went on her way, in the testimony
of a good conscience. She felt that she had been equal to
the emergency, and had met a crisis in the most thorough
and effectual manner.

The teachers of district schools in those days often dis-
played a singular ingenuity in the invention of punishments
by which the different vices of childhood should be repressed ;
and Miss Asphyxia’s housewifely confidence in soap and sand
as a means of purification had suggested to her this expedient
in her school-teaching days. “You can break any child o’
lying, right oft’ short,” she was wout to say. “Jest scour their

miss asphyxia’s system.

147

It -

* m

x

/

ouths out with soap and sand. They never want to try it
more’n once or twice, I tell you.”

The intervals which the child had for play were , in Miss
Asphyxia’s calendar, few and far between. Sometimes, when
she had some domestic responsibility on her mind which
made the watching of the child a burden to her, she would
say to her, “You may go and play till I call you,” or, “You
may play for half an hour; but you mustn’t go out of the
yard.”

Then the child, alone, companionless, without playthings,
sought to appropriate to herself some little treasures and
possessions for the instituting of that fairy world of imagin-
ation which belongs to childhood. She sighed for a doll
that had once belonged to her in the days when she had a
mother, but which Miss Asphyxia had contemptuously tossed
aside in making up her bundle.

Left thus to her own resources , the child yet showed the
unquenchable love of beauty, and the power of creating and
gilding an imaginary little world, which is the birthright of
childhood. She had her small store of what she had been
wont to call pretty things, — a broken teapot handle, a frag-
ment of coloured glass, part of a goblet that had once belonged
to Miss Asphyxia’s treasures, one or two smooth pebbles, and
some red berries from a wild rose-bush. These were the
darlings, the dear delights of her heart, — hoarded in secret
places, gazed on by stealth , taken out and arranged and re-
arranged, during the brief half-hours; or hours, when Miss
Asphyxia allowed her to play. To these treasures the kindly
Sol added another; for one day, when Miss Asphyxia was
not looking, he drew from his vest-pocket a couple of milk-
weed pods, and said, “Them’s putty, — mebbeye’d like ’em;
hide ’em up, though, or she’ll sweep ’em into the fire.”

No gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls ever made bright

10 * *

I

148 OLDTOWN FOLKS.

I

eyes open wider than did the exploring the contents of these •
pods. It was silk and silver, fairy- spun glass, — something
so bright and soft that it really seemed dear to her; and she
took the shining silk fringes out and caressed them against
her cheek, and wrapped them in a little bit of paper, and put
them in her bosom. They felt so soft and downy, — they
were so shining and bright,— -and they were her own, — Sol
had given them to her. She meditated upon them as pos-
sessions of mysterious beauty and unknown value. Unfortu-
nately, one day Miss Asphyxia discovered her gazing upon
this treasure by stealth during her working hours.

“What have you got there?” she said. “Bring it to
me.

The child reluctantly placed her treasure in the great
bony claw.

“ Why, that’s milkweed silk,” said Miss Asphyxia. “ ’Tain’t
good for nothin’. What you doing with that?”

“I like it because it’s pretty.”

“Fiddlestick!” said Miss Asphyxia, giving it a contemp-
tuous toss. “I can’t have you making litter with such stuff
round the house. Throw it in the fire.”

To do Miss Asphyxia justice, she would never have issued
this order if she had had the remotest conception how dear
this apparent trash was to the hopeless little heart.

The child hesitated , and held her treasure firmly. Her
breast heaved, and there was a desperate glare in her soft
hazel eyes.

“ Throw it in the fire ,” said Miss Asphyxia, stamping her
foot, as she thought she saw risings of insubordination.

The child threw it in, and saw her dear, beautiful treasure
slowly consumed, with a swelling and indignant heart. She
was now sure that Miss Asphyxia hated her, and only sought
occasion to torment her.

miss asphyxia’s system.

149

Miss Asphyxia did not hate the child, nor did she love her.
She regarded her exactly as she did her broom and her rolling-
pin and her spinning-wheel, — as an implement or instrument
which she was to fashion to her uses. She had a general
idea, too, of certain duties to her as a human being, which
she expressed by the phrase, “doing right by her,” — that is,
to feed and clothe and teach her. In fact, Miss Asphyxia
believed fully in the golden rule of doing as she would be
done by ; but if a lioness should do to a young lamb exactly
as she would be done by, it might be all the worse for the
lamb.

The little mind and heart were awakened to a perfect
burning conflict of fear, shame, anger, and a desire for
revenge , which now overflowed with strange , bitter waters
that hitherto ignorantly happy valley of child-life. She had
never had any sense of moral or religious obligation, any
more than a butterfly or a canary-bird. She had, it is true,
said her little prayers every night; but, as she said to herself,
she had always said them to mother or Harry, and now there
was nobody to say them to. Every night she thought of
this when she lay down in her joyless, lonesome bed; but
the kindly fatigue which hard work brings soon weighed
down her eyes, and she slept soundly all night, and found
herself hungry at breakfast-time the next morning.

On Sunday Miss Asphyxia rested from her labours, — a
strange rest for a soul that had nothing to do in the spiritual
world. Miss Asphyxia was past middle life, and, as she said,
had never experienced religion, — a point which she regarded
with some bitterness, since, as she was wont to say, she had
always been as honest in her deab'ngs and kept Sunday as
strict as most church-members. Still, she would do her
best at giving religious instruction to the child; and ac-
cordingly, the first Sunday she was dressed in her best frock,

150

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

and set up in a chair to be kept still while the waggon was
getting ready to “go to meetin’,” and Miss Asphyxia tried to
put into her head the catechism made by that dear, friendly
old lover of children, Dr. Watts.

But somehow the first question, benignly as it is worded,
had a grim and threatening sound as it came from the jaws
of Miss Asphyxia, somewhat thus: “Stop playing with your
frock , and look right at me , now. 4 Can you tell me , dear
child, who made you?”’

Now the little one had often heard this point explained,
but she felt small disposition to give up her knowledge at
this demand; so she only looked at Miss Asphyxia in sulky
silence.

44 Say, now, after me,” said Miss Asphyxia, 44 4 The great
God that made heaven and earth. - * ”

The child repeated the words , in that mumbling , sulky
manner which children use when they are saying what does
not please them.’

44 Tina Percival ,” said Miss Asphyxia, in warlike tones,
44 do you speak out plain, or I’ll box your ears.”

Thus warned, the child uttered her confession of faith
audibly enough.

Miss Asphyxia was peculiarly harsh and emphatic on the
answer which described the omnipresence of the Supreme
Being, and her harsh voice, croaking, 44 If I tell a lie, He sees
me, — if I speak an idle or wicked word, He hears me,” seemed
to the child to have a ghastly triumph in it to confirm the
idea that Miss Asphyxia’s awful tyranny was thoroughly
backed up by that of a Being far more mighty, and from whom
there was no possible escape. Miss Asphyxia enforced this
truth with a coarse and homely eloquence, that there was no
getting away from God, — that He could see in'the night just
as plain as in the daytime,-— see her in the yard, see her in

• .Digitized ta^43oogle

miss asphyxia’s system.

151

the bam , see her under the bed , see her down cellar ; and
that whenever she did anything wrong He would write it
down in a dreadful book, and on the Day of Judgment she
would have it all brought out upon her, — all which the child
heard with a stony, sullen despair. Miss Asphyxia illustrated
what became of naughty children by such legends as the
story of the two she-bears which came out of a wood and
tare forty-and-two children who mocked at old Elisha, till
the rebellious auditor quaked in her little shoes, and won-
dered if the bears would get Harry , and if Harry , after all,
would not find some way to get round the bears and come to
her help.

At meeting she at last saw Harry, seated, however, in a
distant part of the house; but her heart was ready to jump
out of her breast to go to him ; and when the services were
over she contrived to elude Miss Asphyxia, and, passing
through the throng, seized his hand just as he was going out,
and whispered, “0 Harry, Harry, I do want to see you so
much! Why don’t you come to see me?”

“They wouldn’t let me, Tina,” said Harry, drawing his
sister into a little recess made between the church and the
horse-block, — an old-fashioned structure that used to exist for
the accommodation of those who came to church on horse-
back. “They won’t let me come. I wanted to come, — I
wanted to see you so much!”

“ 0 Harry, I don’t like her, — she is cross to me. Do take
me away, — do, Harry! Let’s run away together.”

“Where could we go, Tina?”

“Oh, somewhere,— no matter where. I hate her. I won’t
stay with her. Say, Harry, I sleep in a little room by the
kitchen; come to my window some night and take me away.”
“Well, perhaps I will.”

. “Here you are, you little minx!’’ said Miss Asphyxia,

152

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

“What you up to now? Come, the waggin’s waiting,’* —
and, with a look of severe suspicion directed to Harry, she
seized the child and conveyed her to the waggon, and was
soon driving off with all speed homeward.

That evening the boy pondered long and soberly. He had
worked well and steadily during the week, and felt no dis-
position to complain of his lot on that account, being, as we
have said, of a faithful and patient nature, and accepting
what the friendly hired men told him, — that work was good
for little boys, that it would make him grow strong, and that
by and by he would be grown up and able to choose his own
work and master. But this separation from his little sister,
and her evident unhappiness, distressed him; he felt that she
belonged to him, and that he must care for her, and so, when
he came home, he again followed Goody Smith to the retire-
ment of her milk-room.

The poor woman had found a perfect summer of delight
in her old age in having around her the gentle-mannered,
sweet-spoken, good boy, who had thus marvellously fallen to
her lot; and boundless was the loving-kindness with which
she treated him. Sweet cakes were slipped into his hands at
all odd intervals, choice morsels set away for his consumption
in secret places of the buttery, and many an adroit lie told
to Old Crab to secure for him extra indulgences , or prevent *
the imposition of extra tasks; and many a little lie did she
recommend to him, at which the boy’s honest nature and
Christian education inclined him greatly to wonder.

That a grown-up, good old woman should tell lies, and
advise little boys to tell them , was one of those facts of hu-
man experience which he turned over in his mind with won-
der, — thinking it over with that quiet questioning which
children practise who have nobody of whom they dare make
many inquiries. But to-day he was detennined to have some-

miss asphyxia’s system.

153

thing done about Tina, and so he began, “Please, won’t you
ask him to let me go and see Tina to-night? It’s Sunday, and
there isn’t any work to do.”

“Lord a massy, child, he’s crabbeder Sundays than any
other day, he has so much time to graowl round. He drinks
more cider; and Sunday night it’s always as much as a body’s
life’s worth to go near him. I don’t want you to get him sot
agin ye. He got sot agin Obed; and no critter knows why,
except mebbe’ cause he was some comfort to me. And ye
oughter seen how he used that ’ere boy. Why, I’ve stood
here in the milk-room and heerd that ’ere boy’s screeches
clear from the stun pastur’. Finally the men , they said they
couldn’t stan’ it, nor they wouldn’t.”

“Who was Obed?” said Harry, fearfully.

“Lordy massy! wal, I forgot ye didn’t know Obed. He
was the baby, ye see. He was bom the eighteenth of April,
jest about nine o’clock in the evening, and Aunt Jerusha
Periwinkle and Granny Watkins, they said they hadn’t seen
no sick child in all their missing. Held up his head jest as
lively, and sucked his thumb, he did, — jest the patientest,
best baby ye ever did see, — and growed beautiful. And he
was gettin’ to be a real beautiful young man when he went
off.”

“Went off?” said Harry.

“Yes, he went off to sea, jest for nothin’ but ’cause his
father aggravated him so.”

“ What was the matter? what did he do it for?”

“Wal, Obed, he was allers round helpin’ me, — he’d turn
the cheeses for me, and draw the water, and was always on
hand when I wanted a turn. And he took up agin him , and
said we was both lazy, and that I kept him round waitin’ on
me ; and he was allers a tkrowin’ it up at me that I thought
more of Obed than I did of him ; and one day flesh and blood

154

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

couldn’t stan’ it no longer. I got clear beat out, and says I,
‘Well, father, why shouldn’t I? Obed’s allers a tryin’ to help
me and make my work easy to me , and thinkin’ what he can
do for me; and he’s the greatest comfort of my life, and it
ain’t no sin if I do think more on him than I' do of other folks.’
Wal, that very day he went and picked a quarrel with him,
and told him he was going to give him a stand-up thrashing.
And Obed, says he, 4 No, father, that you shan’t. I’m sixteen
year old, and I’ve made up my mind you shan’t thrash me no
more.’ And with that he says to him, 4 Get along out of my
house, you lazy dog,’ says he; 4 you’ve been eatin’ of my
bread too long,’ says he. 4 Well, father, I will,’ says Obed.
And he walks up to me and kisses me, and says he, ‘Never
mind, mother, I’m going to come home one of these days and
bring money enough to take care of you in your old age;
and you shall have a house of your own, and shan’t have to
work ; and you shall sit in your satin gown and drink your
tea with white sugar every day, and you shan’t be no man’s
slave. You see if I don’t. With that he turned and was off,
and I hain’t never seen him since.”

44 How long’s he been gone?”

44 Wal, it’s four years come next April. I’ve hed one or
two letters from him , and he’s ris’ to be mate. And he sent
me his wages, — biggest part on ’em, — but he hed to git ’em
to me round by sendin’ on ’em to Ebal Parker ; else he'd, a
took ’em , ye see. I couldn’t have nothin’ decent to wear to
meetin’, nor my little caddy o’ green tea, if it hadn’t been for
Obed. He won’t read Obed’s letters , nor hear a word about
him , and keeps a castin’ it up at me that I think so much of
Obed that I don’t love him none.”

44 1 shouldn’t think you would,” said the boy, innocently.

44 Wal, folks seems to think that you must love ’em through
thick and thin, and I try ter. I’ve allers kep’ his clothes

THE CRISIS.

155

mended , and his stockings darned up , and two or three good
pair ahead, and done for him jest the best I know how; but
as to lovin’ folks when they’s so kind o’ as he is, I don’t reelly
know how ter. Expect, ef he was to be killed, I should feel
putty bad, too — kind o’ used to havin’ on him round.”

This conversation was interrupted by the voice of Crab,
in the following pleasing style of remark , u What the devil
be you a-doin’ with that boy, — keepin’ him from his work
there? It’s time to be to the barn seein’ to the critters. .Here,
you young scamp, go out and cut some feed for the old mare.
Suppose I keep you round jest to eat up the victuals and be
round under folks’ feet?”

CHAPTER XL

The Crisis.

Matters between Miss Asphyxia and her little subject
began to show evident signs of approaching some crisis, for
which that valiant virgin was preparing herself with mind
resolved. It was one of her educational tactics that children,
at greater or less intervals , would require what she was wont
to speak of as good whippings, as a sort of constitutional
stimulus to start them in the ways of well-doing. As a school-
teacher, she was often fond of rehearsing her experiences, —
how she had her eye on Jim or Bob through weeks of growing
carelessness or obstinacy or rebellion , suffering the measure
of iniquity gradually to become full, until in an awful hour,
she pounced down on the culprit in the very blossom of his
sin, and gave him such a lesson as he would remember, as
she would assure him, the longest day he had to live.

The burning of rebellious thoughts in the little breast , of
internal hatred and opposition , could not long go on without
slight whiffs of external smoke, such as mark the course of

156

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

subterranean fire. As the child grew more accustomed to
Miss Asphyxia, while her hatred of her increased, somewhat
of that native hardihood which had characterised her hap-
pier days returned; and she began to use all the subtlety
and secretiveness which belonged to her feminine nature in
contriving how not to do the will of her tyrant, and yet not
to seem designedly to oppose. It really gave the child a new
impulse in living to devise little plans for annoying Miss
Asphyxia without being herself detected. In all her daily
toils she made nice calculations how slow she could possibly
be , how blundering and awkward, without really bringing on
herself a punishment; and when an acute and capable child
turns all its faculties in such a direction , the results may be
very considerable.

Miss Asphyxia found many things going wrong in her
establishment in most unaccountable ways. One morning
her sensibilities were almost paralysed, on opening her milk-
room door, to find there, with creamy whiskers, the venerable
Tom , her own model cat, — a beast who had grown up in the
very sanctities of household decorum, and whom she was
sure she had herself shut out of the house, with her usual
punctuality , at nine o’clock the evening before. She could
not dream that he had been enticed through Tina’s window,
' caressed on her bed, and finally sped stealthily on his mission
of revenge, while the child returned to her pillow to gloat
over her success. •

Miss Asphyxia also, in more than one instance, in her
rapid gyrations , knocked down and destroyed a valuable bit
of potteiy or earthenware , that somehow had contrived to be
stationed exactly in the wind of her elbow or her hand. It
was the more vexatious because she broke them herself. And
the child assumed stupid innocence: “How could she know
Miss Sphyxy was coming that way?” or, “She didn’t see

THE CRISIS.

157

her.” True, she caught many a hasty cuff and sharp rebuke;
but, with true Indian spirit, she did not mind singeing her
own fingers if she only tortured her enemy.

It would be an endless task to describe the many vexations
that can be made to arise in the course of household ex-
perience when there is a shrewd little elf watching with
sharpened faculties for every opportunity to inflict an annoy-
ance or do a mischief. In childhood the passions move with
a simplicity of action unknown to any other period of life, and
a child’s hatred and a child’s revenge have an intensity of
bitterness entirely unalloyed by moral considerations; and
when a child is without an object of affection, and feels itself
unloved , its whole vigour of being goes into the channels of
hate.

Religious instruction, as imparted by Miss Asphyxia, had
small influence in restraining the immediate force of passion.
That “the law worketh wrath” is a maxim as old as the
times of the apostles. The image of a dreadful Judge — a
great God , with ever- watchful eyes, that Miss Asphyxia told
her about— roused that combative element in the child’s
heart which says in the heart of the fool, “ There is no God.”
“After all,” thought the little sceptic, “how does she know?
She never saw Him.” Perhaps, after all, then, it might be
only a fabrication of her tyrant to frighten her into submis-
sion. There was a dear Father that mamma used to tell her
about; and perhaps He was the one, after all. As for the
bear story she had a private conversation with Sol, and
was relieved by this confident assurance that there “hadn’t
been no bears seen round in them parts these ten year;” so
( that she was safe in that regard , even if she should call Miss
Asphyxia a bald-head, which she perfectly longed to do, just
to see what would come of it.

In like manner, though the story of Ananias and Sappliira,

158

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

struck down dead for lying, had been told her in forcible and
threatening tones, yet still the little sinner thought within
herself that such things must have ceased in our times, as
she had told more than one clever lie which neither Miss
Asphyxia nor any one else had found out.

In fact, the child considered herself and Miss Asphyxia as
in a state of warfare which suspends all moral rules. In the
stories of little girls who were taken captives by goblins or
giants or witches , she remembered many accounts of saga-
cious deceptions which they had practised on their captors.
Her very blood tingled when she thought of the success of
some of them, — how Hensel and Grettel had heated an oven
red-hot, and persuaded the old witch to get into it by some
cock-and-bull story of what she would find there ; and how,
the minute she got in, they shut up the oven door, and burnt
her all up! Miss Asphyxia thought the child a vexatious,
careless , troublesome little baggage, it is true ; but if she
could have looked into her heart and seen her imaginings,
she would probably have thought her a little fiend.

At last, one day, the smothered fire broke out. The child
had had a half-hour of holiday, and had made herself happy
in it by furbishing up her little bedroom. She had picked a
peony, a yellow lily, and one or two blue irises, from the spot
of flowers in the garden , and put them in a tin dipper on the
table in her room, and ranged around them her broken bits
of china, her red berries and fragments of glass, in various
zigzags. The spirit of adornment thus roused within her, she
remembered having seen her brother make pretty garlands
of oak-leaves; and, running out to an oak hard by, she
stripped off an apronful of the leaves , and , sitting down in
the kitchen door, began her attempts to plait them into gar-
lands. She grew good-natured and happy as she wrought,
and was beginning to find herself in charity even with Miss

THE CRISIS.

159

Asphyxia, when down came that individual, broom in hand,
looking vengeful as those old Greek furies who used to haunt
houses, testifying their wrath by violent sweeping.

“ What under the canopy you up to now, making such a
litter on my kitchen floor?” she said. “ Can’t I leave you a
minute ’thout your gettin’ into some mischief, I want to know?
Pick ’em up, every leaf of ’em, and carry ’em and throw ’em
over the fence ; and don’t you never let me find you bringing
no such rubbish into my kitchen again!”

In this unlucky moment she turned, and, looking into the
little bedroom, whose door stood open , saw the arrangement s
there. “What!” she said; “you been getting down the tin
cup to put your messes into? Take ’em all out!” she said,
seizing the flowers with a grasp that crumpled them, and
throwing them into the child’s apron. “ Take ’em away, every
one of ’em! You’d get everything out of place, from one end
of the house to the other, if I didn’t watch you ! ” And forth-
with she swept off* the child’s treasures into her dust-pan.

In a moment all the smothered wrath of weeks blazed up
in the little soul. She looked as if a fire had been kindled in
her which reddened her cheeks and burned in her eyes; and
rushing blindly at Miss Asphyxia, she cried, “You are a
wicked woman, a hateful old witch, and I hate you!”

“Hity-tity! I thought I should have to give you a lesson
before long, and so I shall,” said Miss Asphyxia, seizing her
with stern determination. “You’ve needed a good sound
whipping for a long time , miss , and you are going to get it
now. I’ll whip you so that you’ll remember it, I’ll promise
you.” '

And Miss Asphyxia kept her word , though the child , in
the fury of despair, fought her with tooth and nail, and proved
herself quite a dangerous little animal ; but at length strength

Digitized by Google

160

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

got the better in the fray, and, sobbing, though unsubdued,
the little culprit was put to bed without her supper.

In those days the literal use of the rod in the education of
children was considered as a direct Bible teaching. The
wisest, the most loving parent felt bound to it in many cases,
even though every stroke cut into his own heart. The laws
of New England allowed masters to correct their apprentices,
and teachers their pupils, — and even the public whipping-
post was an institution of New England towns. It is not to
be supposed, therefore, that Miss Asphyxia regarded herself
otherwise than as thoroughly performing a most necessary
duty. She was as ignorant of the blind agony of mingled
shame, wrath, sense of degradation, and burning for revenge,
which had been excited by her measures, as the icy east wind
of Boston flats is of the stinging and shivering it causes in its
course. Is it the wind’s fault if your nose is frozen? There
. is not much danger in these days that such measures will be
the fashionable ones in the bringing up of cliildren. But
there is a class of coldly conscientious , severe persons , who
still, as a matter of duty and conscience, justify measures like
these in education. They , at all events, are the ones who
ought to be forbidden to use them , and whose use of them
with children too often proves a soul-murder, — a dispensation
of wrath and death. Such a person is commonly both obtuse
in sensibility and unimaginative in temperament; but if his
imagination could once be thoroughly enlightened to see the
fiend-like passions, the terrific convulsions, which are roused
in a child’s soul by the irritation and degradation of such
correction, he would shrink back appalled. With sensitive
children left in the hands of stolid and unsympathising force,
such convulsions and mental agonies often are the beginning
of a sort of slow moral insanity which gradually destroys all
that is good in the soul. • Such was the danger now hanging

' I

. THE CRISIS. 161

over the hapless little one whom a dying mother had left to
God. Is there no stirring among the angel wings on her
behalf?

As the child lay sobbing in a little convulsed heap in her
bed, a hard , horny hand put back the curtain of the window,
and the child felt something thrown on the bed. It was Sol,
who, on coming in to his supper, had heard from Miss
Asphyxia the whole story, and who, as a matter of course,
sympathised entirely with the child. He had contrived to
slip a doughnut into his pocket, when his hostess was looking
the other way. When the child rose up in the bed and
showed her swelled and tear-stained face, Sol whispered,
“There’s a doughnut I saved for ye. Darn her pictur’! Don’t
dare say a word, ye know. She’ll hear me.”

“O Sol, can’t you get Harry to come here and see me?”
said the child, in an earnest whisper.

“Yes, I’ll get him, if I have to go to thunder for’t,” said
Sol. “You jest lie down now, there’s a good girl, and I’ll
work it, — ye see if I don’t. To-morrow I’ll make her go off
to the store , and I’ll get him down here , you see if I don’t.
It’s a tarnal shame; that ’ere critter ain’t got no more bowels
than a file.”

The child, however, was comforted, and actually went to
sleep hugging the doughnut. She felt as if she loved Sol,
and said so to the doughnut many times, — although he had
great homy fists, and eyes like oxen. With these, he had a
heart in his bosom, and the child loved him.

Qldtown Folks* /,

11

Digitized by Google

162

OLD TOWN "FOLKS.

%

CHAPTER XII.

The Lion’s Mouth Shut.

“ Now, where a plague is that boy ? ” said Old Crab , sud-
denly bearing down, as evil-disposed people are always apt
to do, in a most unforeseen moment.

The fact was that there bad been a silent conspiracy
among Sol and Goody Smith and the hired men of Old Crab,
to bring about a meeting between the children. Miss Asphyxia
had been got to the country store and kept busy with various
bargains which Sol had suggested, and Old Crab had been
induced to go to mill, and then the boy had been sent by
Goody Smith on an errand to Miss Asphyxia’s house. Of
course he was not to find her at home, and was to stay and
see his sister, and be sure and be back again by four o’clock.

“Where a plague is that lazy shote of a boy?” he re-
peated.

“What, Harry?”

“Yes, Harry. Who do you suppose I mean? Harry, —
where is he?”

“Oh, I sent him up to Sphyxy’s.”

“ You sent him?” said Old Crab, with that kind of tone
which sounds so much like a blow that one dodges one’s head
involuntarily. “ You sent him? What business you got inter-
fering in the work?”

“Lord a massy, father, I jest wanted Sphyxy’s cards and
some o’ that ’ere fillin’ she promised to give me. He won’t
be gone long.”

Old Crab stood at this disadvantage in his fits of ill-
temper with his wife, that there was no form of evil language
or abuse that he had not tried so many times on her that it
was quite a matter of course for her to hear it. He had used

Digitized by Google

THE LION’S MOUTH SHUT.

163

up the English language, — made it, in fact, absolutely of no
effect, — while his fund of ill-temper was, after all, but half
expressed.

“You’ve begun with that ’ere boy jest as you allers did
with all your own, gettiu’ ’em to be a- waitin’ round on you,
— jest ’cause you’re a lazy good-for-nothin’. We’re so rich,
I wonder you don’t hire a waiter for nothin’ but to stan’ be-
hind your chair. I’ll teach him who his master is when he
comes back.”

“ Now, father, ’t ain’t no fault o’ his’n. / sent him.”

“And / sot him to work in the fields, and I’d like to know
if he’s goin’ to leave what I set him to do, and go round after
your errands. Here ’tis gettin’ to be ’most five o’clock , and
the critters want fodderin’, and t that ’ere boy a-dancing ’tend-
ance on you. But he ain’t a-doin’ that. He’s jest off a
berryin’ or suthin’ with that trollopin’ sister o’ his’n, — jes’
what you bring on us, takin’ in trampers. That ’ere gal, she
pesters Sphyxy half to death.”

“ Sphyxy’s pretty capable of takin’ care of herself,” said
Goody Smith, still keeping busy with her knitting, but look-
ing uneasily up the road where the form of the boy might be
expected to appear.

The outbreak that she had long feared of her husband’s
evil nature was at hand. She knew it by as many signs as
one foretells the approach of hurricanes or rain-storms. She
knew it by the evil gleam in his sma\l, grey eyes, — by the
impatient pacing backward and forward in the verandah,
like a caged wild animal. It made little matter to him what
the occasion was: he had such a superfluity of evil temper
to vent, that one thing for his purpose was about as good as
another.

It grew later and later , and Old Crab went to the bam to

11 *

Digitized by Google

r

164

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

attend to his cattle, and the poor little old woman knitted
uneasily.

“What could ’a’ kep’ him?” she thought. “He can’t ’a’
run off.” There was a sudden gleam of mingled pleasure
and pain in the old woman’s heart as this idea darted through
her mind. “I shouldn’t wonder if he would, but I kind o’
hate to part with him.”

At last she sees him coming along the road , and runs to
meet him. “How could you be so late? He’s (lrefful mad
with ye.”

“I didn’t know how late it was. Besides, all I could do,
Tina would follow me , and I had to turn back and carry her
home. Tina has bad times there. That woman isn’t kind
to her.”

“No, dear, she ain’t noways kind,” said the old woman;
“it ain’t Sphyxy’s way to be kind; but she’ll do meddlin’
' well by her, — anyway, she won’t let nobody hurt her but
herself. It’s a hard world to live in; we have to take it as’t
comes.”

“Well, anyway,” said the boy, “they must let us go to
see each other. It isn’t right to keep us apart.”

“No, ’tain’t, dear; but lordy massy, what can ye do?”

There was a great steady tear in the boy’s large blue eyes
as he stopped at the porch, and he gave a sort of dreary
shiver.

“Halleoah you there! you lazy little cuss,” said Old Crab,
coming from the barn, “where you been idling all the after-
noon?”

“I’ve been seeing my sister,” said the boy, steadily.

“Thought so. Where’s them cards and the fillin’ you was
sent for?”

“There wasn’t anybody at home to get them.”

Digitized by Google

THE LION’S MOUTH SHUT.

165

“And why didn’t you come right back, you little var-
mint?”

“Because I wanted to see Tina. She’s my sister; and my
mother told me to take care of her; and it’s wicked to keep
us apart so.”

“Don’t you give me none of yer saace,” said Old Crab,
seizing the boy by one ear, to which he gave a vicious
wrench.

“Let me alone,” said the boy, flushing up with the sudden
irritation of pain and the bitter sense of injustice.

“Let you alone? I guess I won’t; talking saace to me
that ’ere way. Guess I’ll show you who’s master. It’s time
you was walked off down to the barn, sir, and find out who’s
your master,” he said, as he seized the boy by the collar and
drew him off.

“0 Lord!” said the woman, running out and stretching
her hands instinctively after them. “Father, do let the boy
alone.”

She could not help this cry any more than a bird can help
a shriek when she sees the hawk pouncing down on her
nest, though she knew perfectly well that she might as well
have shouted a petition in the angry face of the north-east
wind.

“Take off your jacket,” said Old Crab, as soon as he had
helped himself to a long cart-whip which stood there.

The boy belonged to that class of amiable, good-natured
children who are not easily irritated or often provoked , but
who, when moved by a great injustice or cruelty, are thrown
into convulsions of passion. The smallest and most insig-
nificant animal, in moments of utter despair, when every
fibre of its being is made vital with the energy of desperate
resistance, often has a force which will make the strongest
and boldest stand at bay. The boy retreated a pace or two,

Digitized by Google

166

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

braced his back against the manger, while his whole form
trembled and appeared to dilate, and it seemed as if blue
streams of light glared from his eyes like sparks struck from
burning steel.

“Strike me if you dare, you wicked, dreadful man,” he
shouted. “Don’t you know that God sees you? God is my
Father, and my mother is gone to God; and if you hurt me
He’ll punish you. You know I haven’t done anything wrong,
and God knows it. Now strike me if you dare.”

The sight of any human being in a singular and abnormal
state has something appalling about it; and at this moment
the child really appeared to Old Crab like something super-
natural. He stood a moment looking at him, and then his
eyes suddenly seemed fixed on something above and beyond
him, for he gazed with a strange, frightened expression; and
at last, pushing with his hands, called out, “Go along; get
away, get away! I hain’t touched him,” and, turning, fled
out of the barn.

He did not go to the house again, but to the village tavern,
and, entering the bar-room with a sort of distraught air,
called for a dram, and passed the evening in a cowering state
of quiet in the corner, which was remarked on by many as
singular.

The boy came back into the house.

“ Massy to us, child,” said the old woman, “ I thought he’d
half killed ye.”

“No, he hasn’t touched me. God wouldn’t let him,” said
the boy.

“Well, I declare for’t! He must have sent the angels
that shut the lion’s mouth when Daniel was in the den,” said
the woman. “ I wouldn’t ’a’ had him struck ye , not for ten
dollars.”

The moon was now rising, large, white, and silvery, yet

Digitizgj-by Google

THE LION^ MOUTH SHUT.

167

with a sort of tremulous, rosy flush, as it came up in the
girdle of a burning autumn horizon. The boy stood a
moment looking at it. His eyes were still dilated with that
unnatural light, and his little breast heaving with waves of
passion not yet tranquillised.

“Which way did he go?” said the woman.

“Up the road,” said the boy.

“To the tavern,” said the woman. “He’s been there
before this afternoon. At any rate, then, he’ll let us alone
a while. There comes the men home to supper. Come in;
I’ve got a turnover I made a purpose for ye.”

“No, I must bid you good-bye now,” said the boy. “I
can’t stay here any longer.”

“Why, where be ye going?”

■*0

“ Going to look for a better place , where I can take care
of Tina,” said the boy.

“Ye ain’t a-going to leave me?” said the old woman.
“Yet I can’t want ye to stay. I can’t have nothin’ nor
nobody.”

“I’ll come back one of these days,” said the boy cheer*
fully, — “come and see you.”

“Stay and get your supper, anyhow,” pleaded the old
woman. “ I hate ter have ye go , drefful bad.”

“I don’t want any supper,” said the child; “but if you’ll
give me a little basket of things, I want ’em for Tina.”

The old soul ran to her buttery, and crammed a small
splint basket with turnovers , doughnuts , and ample slices of
rye bread and butter, and the boy took it and trudged off’,
just as the hired men were coming home.

“Hulloah, bub!” shouted they, “where ye goin’?”

“ Going to seek my fortune ,” said the boy , cheerfully.

“Jest the way they all go,” said the old woman.

168

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

“ Where do you suppose the young un’ll fetch up?” said
one of the men to the other. »

“No business of mine, — can’t fetch up wus than he has
ben a doin’.”

“Old Crab a-cuttin’ up one of his shines, I s’pose?” said
the other, interrogatively.

“Shouldn’t wonder; ’bout time; ben to the tavern this
arternoon, I reckon.”

The boy walked along the rough stony road towards Miss
Asphyxia’s farm. It was a warm , mellow evening in Octo-
ber. The air had only a pleasant coolness. Everything was
tender and bright. A clump of hickory trees on a rocky
eminence before him stood like pillars of glowing gold in the
twilight; one by one, little stars looked out, winking and
twinkling at the lonely child, as it seemed to him, with a
friendly , encouraging ray , like his mother’s eyes.

That afternoon he had spent tiying to comfort his little
sister, and put into her soul some of the childlike yet sedate
patience with which he embraced his own lot, and the good
hopes which he felt of being able sometime to provide for her
when he grew bigger. But he found nothing but feverish
impatience, which all his eloquence could scarcely keep
within bounds. He had, however, arranged with her that
he should come evenings after she had gone to bed, and
talk to her at the window of her bedroom , that she should
not be so lonesome nights. The perfectly demoniac violence
which Old Crab had shown this night had determined him
not to stay with him any longer. He would take his sister,
and they would wander off, a long, long way, till they came
to better people, and then he would try again to get work,
and ask some good woman to be kind to Tina. Such, in
substance, was the plan that occurred to the child; and ac-

Digitized by Google

THE LION’S MOUTH SHUT.

169

cordingly that night, after little Tina had laid her head on
her lonely pillow , she heard a whispered call at her window.

The large, bright eyes opened very wide, as she sat up
in bed and looked towards the window, where Harry’s face
appeared.

“It’s me, Tina, — I’ve come back, — be very still. I’m
going to stay in the barn till everybody’s asleep , and then
I’ll come and wake you, and you get out of the window and
come with me.”

“ To be sure I will , Harry . Let me come now , and sleep
with you in the barn.”

“No, Tina, that wouldn’t do; lie still. They’d see us.
Wait till everybody’s asleep. You just lie down and go to
sleep. I’ll get in at your window and waken you when it’s
time.”

At this moment the door of the child’s room was opened ;
the boy’s face was gone in an instant from the window. The
child’s heart was beating like a trip-hammer; there was a
tingling in her ears; but she kept her little eyes tightly shut.

“Oh, here’s that brown towel I gin her to hem,” said Miss
Asphyxia, peacefully. “She’s done her stent this arternoon.
That ’ere whipping did some good.”

“You’ll never whip me again,” thought the defiant little
heart under the bedclothes.

t

• •••••

Old Crab came home that night thoroughly drunk, — a
thing that did not very often occur in his experience. He
commonly took only just enough to keep himself in a hyena’s
state of temper, but not enough to dull the edge of his
cautious grasping, money-saving faculties. But to-night he
had had an experience that had frightened him , and driven
him to deeper excess as a refuge from thought.

When the boy, upon whom he was meaning to wreak his

Digitized by Google

170 . OLDTOWN FOLKS.

diabolic passions, so suddenly turned upon him in the electric
fury of enkindled passion, there was a sort of jar or vibration
of the nervous element in the man’s nature, that brought
about a result not uncommon to men of his habits. As he
was looking in a sort of stunned , stupid wonder at the boy,
where he stood braced against the manger, he afterwards
declared that he saw suddenly in the dark space above it,
hovering in the air, the exact figure and form of the dead
woman whom they had buried in the graveyard only a few
weeks before. “Her eyes was looking right at me, like live
coals,” he said; “and she had up her hand as if she’d ’a’
struck me; and I grew all over cold as a stone.”

“ What do you suppose ’twas?” said his auditor.

“How should I know,” said Old Crab. “But there I was;
and that very night the young ’un ran off. I wouldn’t have
tried to get him back, not for my right hand, I tell you. Tell
you what,” he added, rolling a quid of tobacco reflectively
in his mouth, “/don’t like dead folks. Ef dead folks ’ll let
me alone, I’ll let them alone. That ’ere’s fair, ain’t it? ”

CHAPTER XIII.

The Empty Bird’s- nest.

The next morning showed as brilliant a getting up of gold
and purple as ever belonged to the toilet of a morning. There
was to be seen from Miss Asphyxia’s bedroom window a brave
sight, if there had been any eyes to enjoy it, — a range of
rocky cliffs with little pin-feathers of black pine upon them,
and behind them the sky all aflame with bars of massy light,
— orange and crimson and burning gold, — and long, bright
rays, darting hither and thither, touched now the window of
a farmhouse, which seemed to kindle and flash back a morn-
ing salutation ; now they hit a tall , scarlet maple , and now

171

THE EMPTY BIRD’s-NEST.

they pierced between clumps of pine, making their black
edges flame with gold; and over all, in the brightening sky,
stood the morning star, like a great tremulous tear of light,
just ready to fall on a darkened world.

Not a bit of all this saw Miss Asphyxia , though she had
looked straight out at it. Her eyes and the eyes of the cow,
who, with her horned front, was serenely gazing out of the
barn window on the same prospect, were equally unreceptive.

She looked at all this solemn pomp of gold and purple,
and the mysterious star, and only said, “ Good day for killin’
the hog, and I must be up gettin’ on the brass kettle. I
should like to know why Sol ain’t been a stirrin’ an hour ago.
I’d really like to know how long folks would sleep ef I’d let

I,-—- 11

em.

Here an indistinct vision came into Miss Asphyxia’s mind
of what the world would be without her to keep it in order.
She called aloud to her prime minister, who slept in the loft
above, “Sol! Sol! You awake?”

“ Guess I be ,” said Sol ; and a thundering sound of cow-
hide boots on the stairs announced that Sol’s matutinal toilet
was complete.

“We’re late this morning,” said Miss Asphyxia, in a tone
of virtuous indignation.

“Never knowed the time when we wa’n’t late,” said Sol,
composedly.

“You thump on that ’ere child’s door, and tell her to be
lively ,” said Miss Asphyxia.

“ Yaas’m, I will,” said Sol, while secretly he was indulging
in a long and low chuckle , for Sol had been party to the fact
that the nest of that young bird had been for many hours
forsaken. He had instructed the boy what road to take , and
bade him “walk spry and he would be out of the parish of
Needmore afore daybreak. Walk on, then, and follow the

172 OLDTOWN FOLKS.

road along the river,” said Sol, “and it’ll bring you to Old-
town , where our folks be. You can’t miss your victuals and
drink any day in Oldtown, call at what house you may; and
ef you’s to get into Deacon Badger’s, why, your fortin’s
made. The deacon he’s a soft-spoken man to everybody,
— white folks, niggers, and Indians, — and Ma’am Badger
keeps regular poor-man’s tavern , and won’t turn even a dog
away that behaves himself. Ye couldn’t light on wus than
ye have lit on, — for Old Crab’s possessed of a devil, every-
body knows; and as for Miss Asphyxia, she’s one of the kind
of sperits that goes walkin’ through dry places seekin’ rest
and findin’ none. Lordy massy, an old gal like her ain’t
nobody to bring up a child. It takes a woman that’s got
juice in her to do that. Why, that ’ere crittur’s drier’n a
two-year-old mullen-stalk. There ain’t no sap ris in her these
’ere thirty years. She means well; but, lordy, you might
jest as well give young turkey chicks to the old gobbler, and
let him stram off in the mowin’ grass with ’em, as give a
delicate little gal like your sister to her to raise; so you jest
go long and keep up your courage , like a brave boy as ye
be, and you’ll come to somethin’ by daylight;” — and Sol
added to these remarks a minced pie, with a rye crust of a
peculiarly solid texture, adapted to resist any of the incidents
of time and travel, which pie had been set out as part of his
own last night’s supper.

When, therefore, he was exhorted to rap on the little girl’s
door, he gave sundry noisy, gleeful thumps, — pounding with
both fists, and alternating with a rythmical kick of the cowhide
boots, calling out in stentorian tones, “Come, little un, — time
you’s up. Miss Sphyxy’s cornin’ down on ye. Better be lively!
Bless me, how the gal sleeps!”

“Don’t take the door off the hinges,” said Miss Asphyxia,
sweeping down-stairs. “Let me come; I’ll wake her, I

Digitized by Google

THE EMPTY BIRD’s-NEST.

173

guess!” and with a dipper of cold water in her hand, Miss
Asphyxia burst into the little room. “What! — what! —

where!” she said, looking under the bed, and over and
around, with a dazed expression. “ What’s this mean? Do
tell if the child’s re’lly for once got up of herself afore I called
her. Sol, see if she’s out pickin’ up chips!”

Sol opened the door and gazed out with well-affected
stolidity at the wood-pile, which, garnished with a goodly
show of large chips, was now being touched up and brightened
by the first rays of the morning sun.

“Ain’t here,” he said.

“Ain’t here? Why, where can she be then? There ain’t
nobody swallowed her, I s’pose; and if anybody’s run off with
her in the night, I guess they’d bring her back by daylight.”
“She must ’a’ run off,” said Sol.

“Run! Where could she ’a’ run to?”

“Mebbe she’s gone to her brother’s.”

“I bet you,” said Miss Asphyxia, “it’s that ’ere boy that’s
the bottom of it all. You may always know that there’s a
boy at the bottom, when there’s any deviltry up. He was
here yesterday, — now wan’t he?”

“Wal, I reckon he was ,” said Sol. “But, massy, Miss
Sphyxy, ef the pig is to be killed to-day, we can’t stan’ a
talkin’ about what you nor me can’t help. Ef the child’s gone,
why she’s somewhere in the Lord’s world, and it’s likely
she’ll keep, — she won’t melt away like the manna in the
wilderness ; and when the pig is killed , and the pork salted
down and got out o’ the way, it’ll be time enough to think o’
lookin’ on her up. She wan’t no gret actual use, — and with
kettles o’ hot water round, it’s jest as well not to have a child
under yer feet. Ef she got scalded, why, there’s your time a
taking care on her, and mebbe a doctor to pay; so it’s jest as
well that things be as they be. /call it kind o’ providential,’*

174

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

said Sol, giving a hoist to his breeches by means of a tug at
his suspenders , which gesture was his usual indication that
he was girding up the loins of his mind for v an immediate
piece of work ; and, turning forthwith, he brought in a mighty
armful of wood, with massive back-log and fore-stick, well
grizzled and bearded with the moss that showed that they
were but yesterday living children of the forest.

The fire soon leaped and crackled and roared, being well
fed with choice split hickory sticks of last year , of which Sol
kept ample store; and very soon the big brass kettle was
swung over upon the old iron crane , and the sacrificial water
was beginning to simmer briskly, while Miss Asphyxia pre-
pared breakfast, not only for herself and Sol, but for Primus
King , a vigorous old negro , famed as a sort of high-priest in
all manner of butchering operations for miles around. Primus
lived in the debatable land between Oldtown and Needmore,
and so was at the call of all who needed an extra hand in
both parishes.

The appearance of Primus at the gate in his butcher’s
frock, knife in hand, in fact put an end in Miss Asphyxia’s
mind to all thoughts apart from the present eventful crisis;
and she hastened to place upon the table the steaming sau-
sages which, with her usual despatch , had been put down for
their morning meal. A mighty pitcher of cider flanked this
savoury dish, to which Primus rolled delighted eyes at the
moment of sitting down. The time had not yet dawned , in
those simple , old New England days , when the black skin of
the African was held to disqualify him from a seat at the
social board with the men whom he joined in daily labour.
The strength of the arm , and the skill of the hand , and the
willingness of the mind of the workman , in those days , were
. his passport to equal social rights : and old Primus took rank,
in the butchering season , as in fact a sort of leader and com-

THE DAY IN FAIRY-LAND.

175

mander. His word was law upon all steps and stages of those
operations which should transform the plethoric, obese in-
habitants of the sty into barrels of pink-hued salt-pork, or
savoury hams and tenderloins and spareribs, or immense
messes of sausage-meat.

Concerning all these matters, Primus was an oracle. His
fervid Ethiopian nature glowed with a broad and visible de-
light, his black face waxed luminous with the oil of gladness,
while he dwelt on the savoury subject, whereon, sitting at
breakfast, he dilated with an unctuous satisfaction that
soothed the raven down of darkness in Miss Asphyxia’s per-
turbed mind , till something bearing a distant analogy to a
smile played over her rugged features.

CHAPTER XIV.

The Day in Fairy-land.

Our little travellers, meanwhile, had had a prosperous
journey along the rocky road between Needmore and Old-
town, in which Sol had planted their feet. There was a great,
round-orbed, sober-eyed October moon in the sky, that made
everything as light as day; and the children were alive in
every nerve with the keen interest of their escape.

“We are going just as Hensel and Grettel did,” said the
little girl. “You are Hensel, and I am Grettel, and Miss
Asphyxia is the old witch. I wish only we could have burnt
her up in her old oven before we came away ! ”

“Now, Tina, you mustn’t wish such things really” said
the boy, somewhat shocked at such very extreme measures.
“You see, what happens in stories wouldn’t do really to
happen.”

“Oh, but Harry, you don’t know how I hate — how I h — ate
Miss Sphyxy! 1 hate her — most as much as I love you!”

Digitized by Google

176

OLDTOWN POLKS.

“But, Tina, mother always told us it was wicked to hate
anybody. We must love our enemies.”

u You don’t love Old Crab Smith, do you?”

“No, I don’t; but I try not to hate him,” said the boy.
“I won’t think anything about him.”

“I can’t help thinking,” said Tina; “and when I think, I
am so angry! I feel such a burning in here!” she said,
striking her little breast; “ it’s just like fire ! ”

“ Then don’t think about her at all,” said the boy; “it isn’t
pleasant to feel that way. Think about the whippoorwills
singing in the woods over there, — how plain they say it, don’t
they? — and the frogs, all singing, with their little, round,
yellow eyes looking up out of the water; and the moon look-
ing down on us so pleasantly! she seems just like mother! ”

“ 0 Harry, I’m so glad ,” said the girl , suddenly throwing
herself on his neck and hugging him,— “I’m so glad we’re
together again! Wasn’t it wicked to keep us apart, — we poor
children?”

“Yes, Tina, I am glad,” said the boy, with a steady, quiet,
. inward sort of light in bis eyes; “but, baby, we can’t stop to
say so much, because we must walk fast and get way, way,
way off before daylight; and you know Miss Spliyxy always
gets up early,— don’t she?”

* “ Oh dear , yes ! She always poked me out of bed before
it was light, — hateful old tiling! Let’s run as fast as we can,
and get away!”

And with that she sprang forward , with a brisk and on-
ward race , over the pebbly road , down a long hill , laughing
as she went, and catching now at a branch of sweetbrier that
overhung the road , and now at the tags of sweet-fern , both
laden and hoary with heavy autumnal dews , till finally, her
little foot tripping over a stone , she fell and grazed her arm
sadly. Her brother lifted her up, and wiped the tears from

TIIE HAY IN FAIRY-LAND.

177

her great, soft eyes with her blue check apron, and talked
to her in that grandfatherly way that older children take such
delight in when they feel the care of younger ones.

“Now, Tina, darling, you shouldn’t run so wild. We’d
better go pretty fast steadily, than run and fall down. But
I’ll kiss the place, as mother used to.”

“I don’t mind it, Hensel, — I don’t mind it,” she said, con-
trolling the quivering of her little resolute mouth. “That
scratch came for liberty; but this,” she said, showing a long
welt on her other arm, — “this was slavery. She struck me
there with her great ugly stick. Oh, I never can forgive
her!”

“ Don’t let’s talk any more, baby; let’s hurry on. She never
shall get you again; I’ll fight for you till I die, first!”

“You’d kill ’em all, wouldn’t you? You would have
knocked her down, wouldn’t you?” said Tina, kindling up
with that inconsiderate exultation in the powers of an elder
brother which belongs to childhood. “I knew you would get
me away from her, Harry, — I knew you would.”

“But now,” said Harry, “you just keep hold of my hand,
and let’s run together, and I’ll hold you up. We must run
fast, after all, because maybe they will harness up the waggon
when daylight comes, and come out to look for us.”

“ W ell, if it’s only Sol comes,” said the little girl, “I sha’n’t
care; for he would only carry us on farther.”

“Ay, but you may be sure Miss Asphyxia would come
herself.”

The suggestion seemed too probable, and the two little
pairs of heels seemed winged by it as they flew along, their
long shadows dancing before them on the moonlit road , like
spiritual conductors. They made such good headway that
the hour which we have already recorded, when Miss As-
Oldtoion Folks. I. 12

Digitized by Google

178

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

phyxia’s slumbers were broken, found the pair of tiny pil-
grims five miles away on the road to Oldtown.

“Now, Tina,” said the boy, as he stopped to watch the
long bars of crimson and gold that seemed to be drawing
back and opening in the eastern sky, where the sun was
flaring upward an expectant blaze of glory, “only look there!
Isn’t it so wonderful? It’s worth being out here only to see
it. There! there! there! the sun is coming! Look! Only
see that bright-red maple, —it seems all on fire! — now that
yellow chestnut, and that old pine-tree! Oh, see, see those
red leaves! They are like the story papa used to tell of
the trees that bore rubies and emeralds. Aren’t they beauti-
ful!”

“Set me on the fence, so as' I can see,” said Tina. “O
Harry, it’s beautiful! And to think that we can see it to-
gether!”

Just at this moment they caught the distant sound of
wheels.

“Hurry, Tina! Let me lift you over the fence,” said the
boy; “they are coming!”

, How the little hearts beat, as both children jumped down
into a thicket of sweet-fem, heavy and wet with morning
dew! The lot was one of those confused jungles which one
often sees hedging the course of rivers in New England.
Groups of pine and hemlock grew here and there, intermixed
with low patches of swampy land , which were waving with
late wild-flowers and nodding swamp-grasses. The children
tore their way through golden-rods , asters , and cat- tails to a
little elevated spot where a great flat rock was surrounded
by a hedge of white-pine. This was precisely the shelter
they wanted; for the pines grew so thickly around it as com-
pletely to screen it from sight from the road, while it was
open to the warm beams of the morning sun,

/

Digitized by Google

THE DAY IN FAIRY-LAND.

179

“Cuddle down here, Tina,” said Harry, in a whispering
voice , as if he feared the driver in the rattling farm-waggon
might hear them.

“ Oh, what a nice little house the trees make here ! ” said
Tina. “We are as snug here and as warm as can be; and
only see what a nice white and green carpet there is all over
the rock!”

The rock , to be sure , was all frothed over with a delicate
white foam of moss, which, later in the day, would have
crackled and broken in brittle powder under their footsteps,
but which now, saturated by the heavy night-dews, only
bent under them, a soft, elastic carpet.

Their fears were soon allayed when , peeping like scared
partridges from their cover, they saw a farm-waggon go
rattling by from the opposite direction to that in which Miss
Asphyxia lived.

“Oh, it’s nobody for us; it comes the other way,” said
the boy.

It was , in fact , Primus King , going on his early way to
preside over the solemnities of pig-killing.

“Then, Hensel, we are free,” said the little girl; “no-
body will catch us now. They could no more find us in this
lot than they could find a little , little tiny pin in the hay-
mow.”

“No, indeed, Tina; we are safe now,” said the boy.

“Why don’t you call me Grettel? We will play — be
Hensel and Grettel; and who knows what luck will come
to us?”

“Well, Grettel then, “said the boy, obediently. “You sit
now , and spread out your frock in the sun to dry, while I get
out some breakfast for you. Old Aunty Smith has filled my
basket with all sorts of good things.”

“And nice old Sol, — he gave us his pie,” said Tina. “I

12 *

Digitized by Google

180

OLDTOWN FOLKS,

love Sol, though he is a funny-looking man. You ought to
see Sol’s hand, it’s so big! And his feet, — why, one of his
shoes would make a good boat for me! But he’s a queer old
dear, though, and I love him.”

“What shall we eat first?” said the boy,— “the bread and
butter, or the cookies, or the doughnuts, or the pie?”

“Let’s try a little of all of them,” said young madam.
“You know, Tina,” said the boy, in a slow, considerate
way, “ that we must take care of this, because we don’t know
when we’ll get any more. There’s got to be a dinner and a
supper got out of this at any rate.”

“Oh, well, Hensel, you do just as you please with it,
then; only let’s begin with Sol’s pie and some of that nice
cheese, for I am so hungry! And then, when we have had
our breakfast , I mean to lie down in the sun , and have a nap
on this pretty white moss. 0 Harry , how pretty this moss
is! There are bright little red things in it, as bright as
mother’s scarlet cloak. But oh, Harry, look, quick! don’t
say a word! There’s a squirrel! How bright his little eyes
are! Let’s give him some of our breakfast.”

Harry broke off a crumb of cake and threw it to the little
striped-backed stranger.

“Why, he’s gone like a wink,” said the girl. “Come back,
little fellow; we shan’t hurt you.”

“Oh, hush, Tina, he’s coming! I see his bright eyes.
He’s watching that bit of cake.”

“There, he’s got it and is off!” said Tina, with a shriek
of delight. “See him race up that tree with it! ”

“He’s going to take it home to his wife.”

“His wife!” said Tina, laughing so hard at Harry’s wit
that she was obliged to lay down her pye. “Has he got a
wife?”

THE DAY IN FAIRY-LAND.

181

“Why, of course he has,” said Harry, with superior
wisdom.

“I’m your wife, ain’t I?” said Tina, contentedly.

“No. You’re my little sister, and I take care of you,”
said the boy. “But people can’t have their sisters for wives;
the Bible says so.”

“Well, I can be just like your wife; and I’ll mend your
clothes and knit your stockings when I get bigger.”

To which practical view of matrimonial duties Harry gave
a grave assent.

Not a striped-backed squirrel, or a bobolink, or a cat-bird,
in the whole pasture-lot, had better spirits than our two little
travellers. They were free; they were together; the sun was
shining and birds were singing; and as for the future, it was
with them as with the birds. The boy, to be sure, had a
share of forethought and care, and deemed himself a grown
man acting with most serious responsibility for his light-
headed little sister; but even in him this was only a half-
awakening from the dream-land of childhood.

When they had finished their breakfast, he bethought him
of his morning prayers, and made Tina kneel down beside
him while he repeated psalm and hymn and prayer, in which
she joined with a very proper degree of attention. When he
had finished, she said, “Do you know, Hensel, I haven’t
said my prayers a single once since I’ve been at Miss As-
phyxia’s?”

“Why, Tina?”

“Well, you see, there wasn’t anybody to say them to,
now mother is gone; and you were not there.”

“But you say them to God, Tina.”

“Oh, He’s so far off*, and I’m so little, I can’t say them to
Him. I must say them to somebody I can see. Harry, where
is mother gone?”

Digitized by Google

I

182 OLDTOWN FOLKS.

“She’s gone to heaven, Tina.”

“ Where is heaven?”

“It’s up in the sky, Tina,” said the boy, looking up into
the deep cloudless blue of an October sky, which, to say the
truth, is about as celestial a thing as a mortal child can
look into ; and as he looked , his great blue eyes grew large
and serious with thoughts of his mother’s last wonderful
words.

“If it’s up in the sky, why did they dig down into the
ground, and put her in that hole?” said the little sceptic.

“It is her soul that went up. Her body is planted like a
beautiful flower. She will come up by and by; and we shall
see her again , if we are good children.”

Tina lay back on the white moss, with only a fringy
bough of white-pine between her and the deep eternal blue,
where the thinnest films of white clouds were slowly sailing
to and fro. Her spiritual musings grew, to say the truth,
rather confused. She was now very tired with her night
tramp ; and the long fringes fell over her great dark eyes , as
a flower shuts itself, and she was soon asleep.

The boy sat watching her a while , feeling soothed by the
calm, soft sunshine, and listening to the thousand sweet
lullaby-notes which Nature is humming to herself, while
about her great world-housework, in a calm October morn-
ing. The locusts and katydids grated a drowsy, continuous
note to each other from every tree and bush; and from a
neighbouring thicket a lively-minded cat-bird was giving
original variations and imitations of all sorts of bird voices
and warblings; while behind the tangled thicket which
fringed its banks came the prattle of a hidden river, whose
bright brown waters were gossiping , in a pleasant , constant
chatter, with the many-coloured stones on the bottom; and
when the light breezes wandered hither and thither, as your

Digitized by Google

THE DAY IN FAIRY-LAND.

183

idle breezes always will be doing, they made little tides and
swishes of sound among the pine-trees, like the rising and
falling of sunny waters on the sea-shore.

Altogether, it was not long before Harry’s upright watch
over his sister subsided into a droop upon one elbow, and
finally the little curly head went suddenly down on to his
sister’s shoulder; and then they were fast asleep, — as nice
a little pair of babes in the wood as ever the robins could
cover up. They did not awake till it was almost noon. The
sun was shining warm and cloudless, and every bit of dew
had long been dried; and Tina, in refreshed spirits, pro-
posed that they should explore the wonders of the pasture-
lot, — especially that they should find out where the river was
wLose waters they heard gurgling behind the leafy wall of
wild vines.

t: We can leave our basket here in our little house, Hensel.
See, I set it in here, way, way in among the pine-trees; and
that’s my little green closet.”

So the children began picking their way through the
thicket, guided by the sound of the water.

“0 Tina!” said the boy; “look there, over your head!”
The object pointed out was a bough of a wild grape-vine,
heavily laden with ripe purple grapes.

“Oh, wild grapes!” said Tina. “Harry, do get them!”
Harry soon pulled the bough down within reach, and the
children began helping themselves.

“I’m going to take an apronful up to the tree, and put
into our closet,” said Tina; “and we shall have a nice store
there.”

“But, Tina, we can’t live there on the rock,” said the boy;
“ we must walk on and get to Oldtown sometime.”

“Oh, well, we have the whole long, long day for it,” said

Digitized by Google

184

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

the girl, “and we may as well have a good time now; so,
when I’ve put up these grapes, we’ll see where the river is.”

f

A little scrambling and tearing through vines soon brought
the children down to the banks of a broad, rather shallow
river, whose waters were of that lustrous yellow-brown which
makes every stone gleam up from the bottom in mellow
colours, like the tints through the varnish of an old picture.
The banks were a rampart of shrubbery and trees hung with
drapery of wild vines, now in the brilliancy of autumnal
colouring. It is not surprising that exclamations of delight
and wonder burst from both children. An old hemlock thit
hung slantwise over the water opposite was garlanded aid
interwoven through all its dusky foliage with wreaths and
pendants of the Virginia creeper, now burning in the brilliant
carmine and scarlet hues of autumn. Great soft, powdery
clumps of golden-rod projected their heads from the closely
interwoven thicket, and leaned lovingly over the stream,
while the royal purple of tall asters was displayed in bend^
ing plumage at their side. Here and there , a swamp-maple
seemed all one crimson flame ; while greener shrubbery and
trees , yet untouched by frosts , rose up around it , as if pur-
posely to give background and relief to so much colour. The
rippling surface of the waters, as they dashed here and there
over the stones, gave back coloured flashes from the red,
yellow, crimson, purple, and green of the banks; while ever
and anon little bright leaves came sailing down the stream,
all moist and brilliant, like so many floating gems.

The children clapped their hands, and began, with sticks,
fishing them towards the shore. “ These are our little boats,”
they said. So they were, — fairy boats, coming from the land
of nowhere, and going on to oblivion, shining and fanciful,
like the little ones that played with them. ,

Digitized by Google

TIIE DAY IN FAIRY-LAND.

185

“ 1 declare,” said Tina, “ I mean to take off my shoes and
stockings, and wade out to that little island where those
pretty white stones are. You go with me.”

“Well, Tina, wait till I can hold you.”

And soon both the little pairs of white feet were slipping
and spattering among the pebbles at the bottom. On the
way, Tina made many efforts to entrap the bright rings of
sunlight on the bottom, regardless of the logic with which
Harry undertook to prove to her that it was nothing but the
light, and that she could not catch it; and when they came
to the little white gravelly bank, they sat down and looked
around them with great content.

“We’re on a desolate island, aren’t we, Hensel?” said
Tina. “I like desolate islands,” she added, looking around
her, with the air of one who had had a wide experience of
the article. “The banks here are so high, and the bushes so
thick, that Miss Asphyxia could not find us if she were to try.
We’ll make our home here.”

“Well, I think, Tina, darling, that it won’t do for us to
stay here very long,” said Harry. “We must try to get to
some place where 1 can find something to do, and some good,
kind woman to take care of you.”

“0 Harry, what’s the use of thinking of that,— -it’s so
bright and pleasant, and it’s so long since I’ve had you to
play with! Do let’s have one good, pleasant day alone among
the flowers! See how beautiful everything is!” she added,
“and it’s so warm and quiet and still, and all the birds and
squirrels and butterflies are having such a good time. I
don’t want anything better than to play about out in the
woods with you.”

“But where shall we sleep nights, Tina?”

“Oh, it was so pleasant last night, and the moon shone so

186

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

bright, I would not be afraid to cuddle down under a bush
with you, Harry.

“Ah, Tina! you don’t know what may come. The moon
don’t shine all night, and there may be cold and wind and
rain, and then where would we be? Come, darling, let’s go
on; we can walk in the fields by the river, and so get down
to the place Sol told us about.”

So at last the little fanciful body was persuaded to wade
back from her desolate island, and to set out once more on
her pilgrimage. But even an older head than hers might
have been turned by the delights of that glorious October
day, and gone off into a vague trance of bliss, in which the
only good of life seemed to be in luxurious lounging and
dreamy enjoyment of the passing hour. Nature in New
England is, for the most part, a sharp, determined matron,
of the Miss Asphyxia school. She is shrewd, keen, relentless,
energetic. She runs through the seasons a merciless express-
train, on which you may jump if you can, at her hours, but
which knocks you down remorselessly if you come in her way,
and leaves you hopelessly behind if you are late. Only for a
few brief weeks in the autumn does this grim, belligerent
female condescend to be charming; but when she does set
about it, the veriest Circe of enchanted isles could not do it
better. Airs more dreamy, more hazy, more full of purple
light and lustre, never lay over Cyprus or Capri than those
which each October overshadow the granite rocks and
prickly chestnuts of New England. The trees seem to run
no longer sap, but some strange liquid glow; the colours of
the flowers flame up, from the cold, pallid delicacy of spring,
into royal tints wrought of the very fire of the sun and the
hues of evening clouds. The humblest weed , which we trod
under our foot unnoticed in summer, changes with the first
frost into some coloured marvel, and lifts itself up into a study

Digitized by Google

THE DAY IN FAIRY-LAND.

187

for a painter,— just as the touch of death or adversity often
strikes out in a rough nature traits of nobleness and delicacy
before wholly undreamed of.

The children travelled onward along the winding course
of the river, through a prairie-land of wild-flowers. The
whole tribe pi asters — white, lilac, pale blue, and royal purple
— were rolling in perfect billows of blossoms around them,
and the sprays of golden-red often rose above their heads, as
they crackled their way through the many-coloured thickets.
The children were both endowed with an organisation ex-
quisitely susceptible to beauty, and the flowers seemed to
intoxicate them with their variety and brilliancy. They
kept gathering from right to left without any other object
than the possession of a newer and fairer spray, till their
little arms were full ; and then they would lay them down to
select from the mass the choicest, which a while after would
be again thrown by for newer and fairer treasures. Their
motion through the bushes often disturbed clouds of yellow
butterflies, which had been hanging on the fringes of the tall
purple asters, and which rose toying with each other, and
fluttering in ethereal dances against the blue sky, looking
like whirls and eddies of air-flowers. One of the most
brilliant incidents in the many-coloured pictures of October
days is given by these fluttering caprices of the butterflies.
Never in any other part of the season are these airy tribes
so many and so brilliant. There are, in particular, whole
armies of small, bright yellow ones, which seem born for no
other purpose than to make effective and brilliant contrasts
with those royal-purple tints of asters , and they hang upon
them as if drawn to them by some law of affinity in their con-
trasting colours.

Tina was peculiarly enchanted with the fanciful fellowship
of these butterflies. They realised exactly her ideal of

188

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

existence , and she pointed them out to Harry as proof posi-
tive that her own notion of living on sunshine and flowers
was not a bad one. She was quite sure that they could sleep
out all night if the butterflies could, and seemed not to doubt
that they would fancy her as a bed-fellow.

Towards sundown, when the children were somewhat
weary of wandering, and had consumed most of the provi-
sions in their basket, they came suddenly on a little tent
pitched in the field , at the door of which sat an old Indian
woman weaving baskets. Two or three red-skinned children,
of about the same age as our wanderers, were tumbling and
kicking about on the ground in high frolic, with about as
many young puppies, who were scratching, rolh*ng,and biting,
with their human companions , in admirable spirits. There
was a fire before the door, over which a pot was swung from
a frame of crossed sticks, the odour of which steamed up,
suggestive of good cheer.

The old Indian woman received the children with a broad,
hearty grin , while Harry inquired of her how far it was to
Oldtown. The old squaw gave it as her opinion, in very
Indian English, that it was “muchee walkce” for little white
boy, and that he had best stay with her that night and go on
to-morrow.

“There, Harry,” said Tina, “now you see just how it is.
This is a nice little house for us to sleep in , and oh ! I see
such pretty baskets in it.”

The old woman drew out a stock of her wares, from which
she selected a small, gaily -painted one, which she gave to the
children ; in short , it was very soon arranged that they were
to stop to supper and spend the night with her. The little
Indians gathered around them and surveyed them with grins
of delight; and the puppies, being in that state of ceaseless
effervescence of animal spirits which marks the indiscreet era

Digitized by Google

THE DAY IN FAIRY-LAND.

189

of puppyhood , soon had the whole little circle in a state of
uproarious laughter.

By and by, the old woman poured the contents of the pot
into a wooden trough , and disclosed a smoking mess of the
Indian dish denominated succotash, — to wit, a soup of corn
and beans, with a generous allowance of salt pork. Offering
a large , clean clam-shell to each of the children , she invited
them to help themselves.

Whether it was the exhilarating effect of a whole day
spent on foot in the open air, or whether it was owing to the
absolute perfection of the cookery, we cannot pretend to say,
but certain it is that the children thought they had never
tasted anything better; and Tina’s spirits became so very
airy and effervescent, that she laughed perpetually, — a state
which set the young barbarians to laughing for sympathy;
and this caused all the puppies to bark at once, which made
more fun; so that, on the whole, a jollier supper company
could nowhere be found.

After sundown, when the whole party had sufficiently
fatigued themselves with play and laughing, the old woman
spread a skin inside the tent, where Tina lay down con-
tentedly between Harry and one of the puppies , which she
insisted upon having as her own particular bed-fellow. Harry
kneeled down to his prayers outside the tent, which being
observed by the Indian woman , she clasped her hands , and
seemed to listen with great devotion; and when he had finished,
she said, “Me praying Indian; me much love Jesus.”

The words were said with a tender gleam over the rough,
hard, swarthy features ; and the child felt comforted by them
as he nestled down to his repose.

“Harry,” said Tina, decisively, “let’s we live here. I like
to play with the puppies, and the old woman is good to us.”

“We’ll see, Tina,” said wise little Harry.

190

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

#

CHAPTER XV.

The Old Manor-house.

Alas! the next morning dawned wet and rainy. The
wind flapped the tent-cover, and the rain put out the fire;
and , what was worse , a cross , surly Indian man came home,
who beat the poor old woman, and scattered the children and
puppies, like partridges, into the bushes.

The poor old squaw- took it all patiently, and seemed
only intent on protecting the children from injuries and in-
conveniences on which she calculated as part of her daily-
lot. She beckoned them to her, and pointed across a field.
“ Go dat way. White folks dere be good to you.” And she
insisted on giving them the painted basket and some coarse
corn bread.

They set off through the fields; but the wind was chilly
and piercing, and the bushes and grass were wet, and Tina
was in a doleful state. “0 Harry, I wish we had a house
to live in! Where do you suppose all the butterflies are
staying that we saw yesterday? I’d like to go where they
stay.”

“Never mind, Tina; by and by we’ll come to a house.”

They passed a spot where evidently some Indians had
been camping, for there were the remains of a fire; and
Harry picked up some dry brush and refuse sticks around,
and kindled it up bright for Tina to warm and dry herself.
They sat there a while and fed the fire , till they began to
feel quite warm. In one of Harry’s excursions for sticks , he
came back and reported a house in sight.

Sure enough, concealed from view behind a pine thicket
was a large, stately mansion, the approach to which was
through an avenue of majestic trees. The path to this was

_ . Dig itized by Google

191

THE OLD MANOR-HOUSE.

«

all grown over with high grass, and a wilderness of orna-
mental shrubbery seemed to have twined and matted itself
together in a wild labyrinth of utter desertion and neglect.
The children made their way up the avenue through dripping
grass and bushes that reached almost to their shoulders,
and that drizzled water upon their partially dried garments
in a way that made Tina shiver. “I’m so cold!” she said,
pitifully. “ The folks must let us come in to dry us.”

They at last stood before the front door, in a sort of porch,
which overshadowed it, and which rested on Corinthian
pillars of some architectural pretension. The knocker was a
black serpent with its tail in its mouth. Tina shuddered
with some vague , inward dread , as Harry , rising on tiptoe,
struck several loud blows upon it, and then waited to see
who would appear.

The wind now rose, and tossed and swung the branches
of the great trees in the avenue with a creaking, groaning
sound. The shrubbery had grown around the house in a
dense and tangled mass, that produced, in the dismal stormy
weather, a sense of oppression and darkness. Huge lilacs
had climbed above the chamber windows, and clumps of
syringas billowed outward from the house in dense cascades;
while roses and various kinds of more tender shrubbery,
which had been deprived of light and air by their more hardy
neighbours, filled up the space below with bare, dead
branches, through which the wind sighed dolefully.

“Harry, do knock again,” said Tina, when they had
waited some time.

“It’s no use,” said the boy; “I don’t think anybody lives
here.”

“Perhaps, if we ’go round to the back of the house, we
shall find somebody,” said Tina; “it’s storming worse and
worse,” And the little girl plunged resolutely into the

/

Digitized by Google

102

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

thicket of dead shrubbery, and began tearing her way
through.

There was a door on the side of the house, much like that
in front; and there were spacious back buildings, which,
joining the house, stretched far away in the shrubbery.
Harry tried this side door. It was firmly locked. The
children then began regularly trying every door that pre-
sented itself to their view. At last one , after considerable
effort, gave way before their united exertions, and opened to
them a shelter from the storm, which was now driving harder
and harder. It was a place that had evidently been used for
the storing of wood , for there was then quite a pile of fuel
systematically arranged against the wall. An ancient axe,
perfectly red with rust, was also hanging there.”

“Well, we’re in at last,” said Tina, “but wet through.
What a storm it is!”

“ Perhaps we can get to some better place in the house,”
said Harry; here is wood, and we might make a fire and diy
our clothes, and wait here till the storm is over.”

He accordingly pushed against a door at the farther end
of the wood-shed, and it opened before him into a large old
kitchen. There was the ample fireplace of olden times, ex-
tending quite across one side, garnished with a crane having
various hooks and other paraphernalia for the convenience of
culinary operations.

*

“There, now,” said Harry, “ is a fireplace , and here is
wood. Now we can dry ourselves. Just you wait here, and
I’ll go back and bring a brand from our fire, if the rain hasn’t
put it all out.” And Harry turned, and hastily made the best
of his way out of the house, to secure his treasure before it
should be too late.

Tina now resolved to explore some of the other rooms.
She opened a door which seemed to lead into a large dining-

Digitized by Google

TIIE OLD MANOR-HOUSE.

193

hall. A heavy dining-table of dark wood stood in the middle
of this room, and a large old-fashioned carved sideboard filled
up ( an arched recess. Heavy mahogany chairs with stuffed
leathern bottoms stood against the wall , but the brass nails
with which they had been finished were green with rust.
The windows of this room were so matted over with cob-
webs, and so darkened by the dense shrubbery outside , as to
give the apartment a most weird and forlorn appearance.
One of the panes of the window had been broken, perhaps
by the striking of the shrubbery against it; and the rain
and snow beating in there had ruined the chair that
stood below, for the seat of it was all discoloured with
mould.

Tina shivered as she looked at this dreary room , and the
tapping of her own little heels seemed to her like something
ghostly; so she hastened to open another door. This led to
a small apartment, which had evidently been a lady’s boudoir.
The walls were hung with tapestry of a dark-green ground,
on which flowers and fruits and birds were represented in
colours that yet remained brilliant, notwithstanding the
dilapidated air of some portions of it. There was a fireplace
in this room, and the mantel was choicely carved, of white
Italian marble , and upon it were sundry flasks and vases of
Venetian glass, of quaint and strange shapes, which the
child eyed with awe-struck curiosity. By the side of the
fireplace was a broad lounge or sofa, with a pile of cushions,
covered with a rich but faded brocade, of a pattern evidently
made to carry out the same design with the tapestry on the
wall.

A harpsichord occupied another side of the room, and
upon it were piled music-books and manuscript music yellow
with age. There was a sort of Oriental guitar or lute sus-
pended from the wall, of which one of the strings, being
Qldtcxcn Folks. 1 , 13

194

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

broken, vibrated with the air of the door when the child made
her way into the room, and continued quivering in a way that
seemed to her nervous and ghostly. Still she was a resolute
and enterprising little body ; and though her heart was beat-
ing at a terrible rate , she felt a sort of mixture of gratified
curiosity and exultation in her discovery.

“I wish Harry would come back,” she said to herself.
“We might make a fire in this pretty little room, and it
would be quite snug, and we could wait here till the folks
come home.” How glad she was when the sound of his voice
and footsteps broke the terrible loneliness! She ran out to
him, exclaiming, “0 Harry, we won’t make a fire in this
great, doleful old kitchen. I’ve found such a nice little room
full of pretty things! Let me bring in some wood;” and,
running to the wood-pile, she filled her arms.

u It was all I could do to find a brand with a bit of fire on
it,” said Harry. “There was only the least spark left, but I
put it under my jacket and blew and blew, and now we have
quite a bright spot in it,” he said, showing with exultation a
black brand with a round, fiery eye in it, which had much
the appearance of a knowing old goblin winking at the
children.

The desolate boudoir was soon a scene of much animation,
as the marble hearth was strewn with chips and splinters.

“Let me blow, Harry,” said Tina, “while you go and look
for some more of this brushwood. I saw a heap in that wood-
house. I’ll tend the fire while you are gone. See,” she said
triumphantly to him, when he returned, dragging in a heavy
pile of brushwood, “we’ll soon have such a fire!” — and she
stooped down over the hearth, laying the burnt ends of sticks
together, 'and blowing till her cheeks were so aflame with zeal
and exertion that she looked like a little live coal herself.
“Now for it!” she said, as she broke bit after bit of the

Digitized by Google

THE OLD MANOR-HOUSE.

195

brushwood. “See now, it’s beginning to burn, — hear it
crackle! Now put on more and more.”

Very soon, in fact, the brushwood crackled and roared in
a wide sheet of flame up the old chimney; and being now
reinforced with stout sticks of wood, the fire took a solid and
settled and companionable form, — the brightest, most hope-
ful companion a mortal could ask for in a chill stormy day
in autumn.

“Now, Harry,” said Tina, “let’s dry our clothes, and then
we will see what we can do in our house.”

“But is it really ours?” said thoughtful Harry. “Who
knows who it may belong to?”

“Do you think,” said Tina, apprehensively, “that any
giant lives here that has gone out and will come home again?
Father used to tell us a story like that.”

“There aren’t really giants now-a-days, Tina,” said
Harry; “those are only stories. I don’t think that it looks
as if anybody had lived here for a great while. Things don’t
look as if anybody lived here, or was expecting to come
back.”

“Then we may as well live here as anybody,” said Tina,
“ and I will keep house for you. I will roast some apples for
our dinner, — I saw ever so many out here on the tree. Roast
apples with our corn bread will be so good! And then we
can sleep to-night on this great wide sofa, — can’t we? Here,
let me sweep up the chips we have made, and make our little
house look nice.”

“It must be a long time since any one has lived here,”
said Harry, looking up at the cobwebbed window, against
which the shrubbery was dashing and beating in the fury of
the storm, “and there can’t be the least harm in our staying
here till the storm is over.”

“Such a strange pretty room this is!” said Tina, “and so

13 *

196

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

many strange pretty things in it! Do you know, Harry, I
was almost afraid to be here while you were gone; but this
bright w'arm fire makes such a difference. Fire is company,
isn’t it?”

When the little one had dried her clothes, she began, with
a restless butterfly sort of motion , to investigate more closely
the various objects of the apartment. She opened the harpsi-
chord, and struck a few notes , which sounded rather discord-
antly , as an instrument which chill and solitude had smitten
with a lasting hoarseness.

“Ok, horrid! This isn’t pretty,” she said. “I wonder
who ever played on it? But, 0 Harry! come and look here!
I thought this was another room in here, with a fire in it,” she
said, as she lifted a curtain which hung over a recess. “Look!
it’s only looking-glass in a door. Where does it go to? Let’s
see.” And with eager curiosity she turned the knob, and the
door opened, disclosing only a sort of inner closet, which had
been evidently employed for a writing-cabinet, as a writing-
table stood there, and book-cases filled with books.

What most attracted the attention of the children was a
picture, which was hung exactly opposite the door, so that it
met the children face to face. It was the image of a young
girl , dressed in white , with long black curling hair falling
down over her neck and shoulders. The dark eyes had an
expression both searching and melancholy; and it was
painted in that peculiar manner, which produces such weird
effects on the beholder, in which the eyes seem to be fixed
upon the spectator, and to follow him on whichever side he
stands.

“What a pretty lady! But she looks at us so!” said
Tina, covering her eyes. “I almost thought it was a real
woman.”

Digitized by Google

THE OLD MANOR-HOUSE.

197

“ Whichever way we move, she looks after us,” said
Harry.

“She looks as if she would speak to us,” said Tina; “she
surely wants to say something.”

“It is something very sad, then,” said the boy, studying
the picture attentively. “ She was not sad as mother was,”
said he , with a delicate spiritual instinct reading the impres-
sion of the face. “Mother used to look very, very sad, but
in a different way, — a better way, 1 think.”

“Of course it isn’t in the least like mother,” said Tina.
“Mother had soft, bright hair, — not black, like this; and her
eyes were blue, like yours, Harry.”

“I don’t mean her hair or her eyes,” said Harry; “but
when mother was sad, she always used to pray. I don’t think
this one looks as if she would pray,” said the boy, rather
under his breath.

There was , in fact , a lurking sparkle of haughty deter-
mination in the depths of the mournful eyes, and a firm curve
to the lines of the mouth, an arching of the neck, and a proud
carriage of the head, that confirmed the boy’s strictures, and
indicated that, whatever sorrows might have crushed the poor
heart that beat beneath that fair form, they were borne in
her own strength, with no uplooking for aid.

Tina longed to open the drawers of the cabinet beneath
the picture, but Harry held her hand. “Tina, dear, what
would mother say?” he said reprovingly. “This isn’t our
house. Whoever owns it wouldn’t think it was wrong for us
to stay here in such a storm , but we certainly ought not to
touch their things.”

“But we may go through the house, and see all the rooms,”
said Tina, who had a genuine feminine passion for rummaging
and whose curiosity was piqued to the extreme point by the

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

198

discoveries already made. “I shall be afraid to sleep here
to-night, unless I know all that is in the house.”

So the children went, hand in hand, through the various
apartments. The house was one of those stately manors
which, before the Revolutionary war, the titled aristocracy of
England delighted to reproduce on the virgin soil of America.
Even to this modern time , some of the old provincial towns
in New England preserve one or two of these monuments of
the pride and pomp of old colonial days , when America was
one of the antechambers of the English throne and aristo-
cracy.

The histories of these old houses, if searched into, present
many romantic incidents, in which truth may seem wilder
than fiction. In the breaking of the ties between the mother
country and America, many of these stately establishments
were suddenly broken up, and the property, being subject to
governmental claims yet undecided, lay a long time unoc-
cupied ; the real claimants being in England, and. their pos-
sessions going through all the processes of deterioration and
decay incident to property in the hands of agents at a dis-
tance from the real owners. The moss of legend and tradi-
tion grew upon these deserted houses. Life in New England,
in those days, had not the thousand stimulants to the love of
excitement which are to be found in the throng and rush of
modern society, and there was a great deal more of story-
telling and romancing in real life than exists now; and the
simple villagers by their firesides delighted to plunge into
the fathomless abyss of incident that came from the histories
of grand, unknown people across the water, who had
established this incidental connexion with their neighbour-
hood. They exaggerated the records of the pomp and wealth
that had environed them They had thrilling legends of
romantic and often tragic incidents, of which such houses had

oft.

Digitized by Google

199

TIIE OLD MANOR-HOUSE.

been the theatres. More than one of them had its well-
attested ghosts, which, at all proper hours, had been veritably
seen to go through all those aimless ghostly perambulations
and performances which, according to village legends , diver-
sify the leisure of the spiritual state.

The house into which the children’s wandering fortunes
had led them was one whose legends and history formed the
topic of many an excited hour of my childhood , as crooned
over to me by different story-telling gossips; and it bad, in
its structure and arrangements , the evident impress of days
nevermore to be reproduced in New England. Large and
lofty apartments , some of them still hung with tapestry, and
some adorned with arches and columns, were closed in from
air and light by strong shutters , although a dusky glimmer
came through the heart-shaped holes cut in them. Some of
these apartments were quite dismantled and bare. In others
the furniture was piled together in confusion, as if for the pur-
pose of removal. One or two chambers were still thoroughly
furnished, and bore the marks of having been at some recent
period occupied ; for there were mattresses and pillows and
piles of bedclothing on the great, stately bedsteads.

“We might sleep in one of these rooms,” said Harry.

“Oh, no, no!” said the child, clinging to him; “I should
be afraid. That great, dreadful-looking, dark bed! And
who knows what might be behind the curtains ! Let me sleep
in the bright little room , where we can see all around us. I
should be afraid that lady in the closet would walk about
these rooms in the night.”

“Perhaps she did once,” said Harry. “But come, let us
go down. The wind blows and howls so about these lone-
some rooms, it makes me afraid.”

“How it rumbles down the chimneys!” said Tina; “and

Digitized by Google

200

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

♦

now it squeals just as if somebody was hurting it. It’s a ter-
rible storm, isn’t it?”

“ Yes, it’s well we are in a house at any rate,” said Harry ;
“ but let’s go down and bring in wood, and I’ll get some apples
and pears off the trees out by the back door.”

And so the two poor little swallows cliittered as they built
their small innocent nest in the deserted house , as ignorant
of the great Before and After as if they had had wings and
feathers, and round, bright bird-eyes, instead of curly, golden
heads. Harry brought in a quantity of fruit in Tina’s little
checked apron , and , like two squirrels , they stored it under
the old brocade sofa.

/

“Now ever so much wood in the hall here,” said Tina,
with the providence of a little housewife; “because when
the dark night comes we shall be afraid to go into the wood-
house.”

Harry felt very large and very provident, and quite like a
householder, as he brought armful after armful and laid it
outside the door, while Tina arranged some apples to roast
on the marble hearth. “ If we only could get something to
eat every day, we might live here always,” she said.

And so that evening, when the night shadows came down
darkly on the house, though the storm without thundered and
beat and groaned amid the branches of the old trees, and
rumbled and shook the chimneys of the solitary manor-
house, there was one nook that presented as bright and warm
a picture as two fair child-faces, with a background of strange
antique furniture and surroundings, could furnish. The fire
had burned down into great splendid glowing coals, in which
the children, seated before it on the tapestried hearth-rug,
saw all sorts of strange faces. Tina had insisted on keeping
open the door of the cabinet where the beautiful lady was,

sam lawson’s discoveries.

201

because, she said, she must be lonesome in that dark closet by
herself.

“I wish she would only smile,” she said, as the sharp'
spires of flame from a new stick of wood which she had just
laid on , dancing up , made the face seem to become living
and tremulous as if with emotion. “See, Hensel, she looks
as if she were going to speak to us.”

And hours later the fire still burned in the little boudoir;
but the two pretty child-faces lay cheek to cheek in the wide
motherly arms of the sofa, and the shadowy lady seemed to
watch over them silently from her lonely recess.

CHAPTER XVI.

Sam Lawson’s Discoveries.

The evening was closing in sharp and frosty, with a lower-
ing of wind and cloud that rendered fire-light doubly dear
and welcome, as we all drew our chairs round the great,
glowing fire in my grandmother’s kitchen. I had my little
block of wood, which served as a footstool, far in the cavernous
depths of one end of the fireplace, close by Black Caesar, who
was busy making me a popgun, while my grandmother sat at
the other end in her rocking-chair, rattling her knitting-
needles. Uncle Fly had just frisked in, and^was perched, as
was his wont, on the very tip of his chair, where he sat fussily
warming and rubbing his hands , much as a meditative blue-
bottle performs the same operation with his fore feet.

“So,” said my grandmother to my grandfather, in re-
proachful tones, “you’ve gone and shut the calf up from its
mother.”

“To be sure,” said my grandfather; “that was fore-
ordained and freely predetermined.”

202

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

“ Well, I say it’s a shame,” sputtered my grandmother, —
“poor creturs!”

It was a part of the farming ordinance, when the calf was
fated to be killed, to separate it for a day from its mother, a
proceeding which never failed to excite the indignation of my
grandmother, which she expressed always with as much life
and freshness as if she had never heard of such a matter be-
fore in her life. She was not, to be sure, precisely aware
what was to be done about it; but in a general way she con-
sidered calf-killing as an abominable cruelty, and the parting
of calf and cow for a day beforehand as an aggravation. My
grandfather was fond of meeting her with a sly use of some
of the Calvinistic theological terms which abounded in her
favourite writers. The most considerate of husbands often
enjoy any quiet method of giving a sly tweak to some
cherished peculiarity of their yokefellows; and there was the
least suggestion of a smile hovering over my grandfather’s
face, — which smile, in your quiet man, means two things, —
first , that he is going to have his own way in spite of all you
can say, and , secondly, that he is quietly amused by your
opposition.

“I say it’s a shame,” quoth my grandmother, “and I aU
ways shall. Hear that poor cow low! She feels as bad as 1
should.”

“Mother,” saidAuntLois, in an impatient tone, “I wonder
that you can’t learn to let things go on as they must. What
would you have? We must have fresh meat sometimes, and
you eat as much as any of us.”

“I don’t care, it’s too bad,” said my grandmother, “and I
always shall think so. If I had things my way, folks shouldn’t
eat creatures at all.”

“You’d be a Brahmin,” said my grandfather.

“No, I shouldn’t be a Brahmin, either; but I know an old

sam lawson’s discoveries.

203

cow’s feelings, and I wouldn’t torment her just to save myself
a little trouble.”

The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of
Sam Lawson, who came in with a long, lugubrious face, and
an air of solemn, mysterious importance, which usually was
the herald of some communication.

“Well, Sam,” said my grandfather, “how are you?”

“Middlin’, Deacon,” said Sam, mournfully, — “only mkL
diin’.”

“Sit down, sit down,” said my grandfather, “and tell us
the news.”

“ Wal, I guess I will. How kind o’ revivin’ and cheerful
it does look here,” said Sam, seating himself in his usual
attitude, with his hands over the fire. “Lordy massy, it’s
so different to our house! Hepsy hain’t spoke a railly decent
word to me since the general trainin’. You know, Deacon,
Monday , a week ago , was general trainin’ day over to Hop-
kinton, and Hepsy, she was set in the idee that 1 should take
her and the young uns to muster. 4 All right, Hepsy,’ says
I, ‘ef I can borrow a boss.’ Wal, I walked and walked clean
up to Captain Brown’s to borrow a hoss, and I couldn’t get
none, and I walked clean down to Bill Peter’s, and I couldn’t
get none. Finally Ned Parker, he lent me liis’n. Wal, to
be sure, his hoss has got the springhalt, that kind o’ twitches
up the waggin, and don’t look so genteel as some ; but, lordy
massy, ’twas all I could get. But Hepsy, she blamed me all
the same. And then she was at me ’cause she hadn’t got no
gloves. Wal, I hadn’t no gret o’ change in my pocket, and
I wanted to keep it for gingerbread and sich for the young
uns, so I thought I’d jest borrow a pair for her, and say
nothin’; and I went over and asked Mis’ Captain Brown,
and over to Mis’ Dana’s, and round to two or three places;
and finally Lady Lothrop, she said she’d give me a old pair

Digitized by Google

t

204 OLDTOWN FOLKS.

o’ hern. And I brought ’em to Hepsy; and do you believe,
she throwed ’em right smack in my face. ‘ S’pose I’m goin’
to wear such an old dirty pair as that?’ says she. Wal,
arter all, we sot out, and Hepsy, she got clear beat out; and
when Hepsy does get beat out she has spells , and she goes
on awful, and they last day arter day. Hepsy’s spells is jest
like these ’ere north-east storms, — they never do really clear
off, but kind o’ wear out, as ’twere, — and this ’ere seems to
be about one of her longest. She was at me this mornin’
fust thing ’fore I was out o’ bed, cry in’ and goin’ on, and
castin’ on it up at me the men she might ’a’ hed if she hadn’t
’a’ hed me, and the things they’d ’a’ done for her, jest as ift
was my fault. ‘Lordy massy, Hepsy!’ says I, ‘I ain’t t’
blame. I wish with all my heart you hed ’a’ hed any on ’em
you’d ruther.’ You see I wa’ n’t meanin’ no ’fence, you know,
but just a bein’ kind o’ sympathisin’ like , and she flew at me
’t oncet. Massy to us ! why , you’d ’a’ thought all them old
Sodom and Gomorrah sinners biled down wa’ n’t nothin’ to
me. She did talk ridiculous. I tried to reason with her.
Says I, ‘Hepsy, see here now. Here you be in a good bed,
in your own house , and your kindlin ’s all split to make your
fire, — and I split eveiy one on ’em after twelve o’clock last
night, — and you a goin’ on at this ’ere rate. Hepsy,’ says I,
‘it’s awful.’ But, lordy massy, how that ’ere^ woman can
talk ! She begun agin , and I couldn’t get in a word edge-
. ways, nor crossways, nor noways; and so I jest got up and
went round to the tavern, and there I met Bill Moss and
Jake Marshall, and we had some crackers and cheese and a
little suthin’ hot with it, and it kind o’ ’curred to me, as
Hepsy was in one o’ her spells, it would be a good time to
go kind o’ Indianing round the country a spell till she kind
o’ come to, ye know. And so I thought I’d jest go t’ other
side o’ Hopkinton and see Granny Walkers, — her that was

Digitized by Google

sam lawson\s discoveries.

205

housekeeper to Lady Frankland, ye know,— and see if I
couldn’t rake out the pertickelars of that ’ere Dench house.
That ’ere house has been a lyin’ on my mind considerable,
along back.”

My ears began to prick up with great liveliness and ani-
mation at this sound; and, deserting Csesar, I went over
and stood by Sam, and surveyed him with fixed attention,
wondering in the meantime how a house could lie on his
mind.

“Well,” said my grandfather, “what did you hear?”

“ Wal, I didn’t get over to her house ; but when I’d walked
a pretty good piece I came across Widdah Peter’s son, Sol
Peters, — you know him, Mis’ Badger, he lives over in Need-
more with a great spankin’ old gal they call Miss Asphyxy
Smith. You’ve heard of Miss Sphyxy Smith, han’t you,
Mis’ Badger.”

“Certainly I have,” said my grandmother.

“Miss Asphyxia Smith is a smart industrious woman,”
said Aunt Lois; “it isn’t worth while to talk so about her.
The world would be better off,” she continued, eyeing Sam
with an air of didactic severity, “if there were more
people in it that keep to their own business, like Miss
Sphyxy.”

“Wal, spuz so,” said Sam Lawson, with an innocent and
virtuous droop, not in the sb’ghtest degree recognising the
hint; “but now, you see, I’m coming to a pint. Sol, he
asked me if anybody over to Oldtown had seen or heard
anything of a couple of children that had run away from
Needmore. There was a boy and a gal about nine or
ten or under, that had been put out by the parish. The
boy was livin’ with Old Crab Smith, and the gal with Miss
Sphyxy.”

“Well, I pity the child that Miss Sphyxy Smith has taken

Digitized by Google

206

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

to bring up, I must say,” said my grandmother. “What
business have old maids a-taking children to bring up, I
want to know? Why, it isn’t every hen that ’s fit to bring
up chickens. How came the children there, anyway?”'

“ Wal, you see, there came a woman along to Crab Smith’s
with these ’ere children. Sol says they ’re real putty children,
— putty-behaved as ever he see. The woman, she was took
down and died there. And so Old Crab, lie took the boy;
and Miss Sphyxy, she took the gal.”

“Too bad!” said my grandmother; “poor motherless
babes, and nobody but Crab and Sphyxy Smith to do for
’em! Somebody ought to see about it.”

“Wal, ye see, Sol, he said that Miss Sphyxy was as hard
as a grindstone on this gal, and they kep’ the boy and gal
apart, and wouldn’t let ’em see or speak to each other; and
Sol says he never did pity any poor,. lonesome little critter as
he did that ’ere little gal. She used to lie a-bed nights, and
sob and cry fit to break her little heart.”

“I should like to go and talk to that woman!” said my
grandmother, vengefully. “I wonder folks can be so mean!
I wonder what such folks think of themselves, and where they
expect to go to! ”

“Wal, you see,” continued Sam, “the young ’un was spicy ;
and when Miss Sphyxy was down on her too hard, the child,
she fit her, — you know a rat’ll bite , a hen will peck , and a
worm will turn, — and finally it come to a fight between ’em;
and Miss Sphyxy, she gin her an awful whippin’. ‘ Lordy
massy, Sol,’ says I, when Sol was a-tellin’ me, ‘you needn’t
say nothin’ about it. That ’ere gal’s got arms like a wind-
mill; she’s a regular brown thrasher, she is, only she ain’t
got no music in her; and ef she undertook to thrash me,
she’d make out*.”

Digitized by Google

sam lawson’s discoveries.

207

“Well, what became of the children?” said my grand-
mother.

“ Wal, you see, th<‘y run off together; fact is, Sol says he
helped ’em off, and told ’em to come over to Oldtown. He
says he told ’em to inquire for Deacon Badger’s.” . .

“I believe so,” said Aunt Lois, severely. “Every man,
woman, and child that wants taking care of is sent straight
to our house.”

“And good reason they should, Lois,” said my grand-
mother, who was wide awake. “I declare, people ought to
be out looking for them. ’Liakim, you are always Hying
about; why don’t you look ’em up?”

Uncle Fly jumped up with alacrity. “To be sure, they
ought to be looked after,” he said, running to the window.
“They ought to be looked after right off; they must be
attended to.” And Uncle Fly seemed to have an indefinite
intention of pitching straight through the window in pursuit.

Sam Lawson eyed him with a serene gravity. He felt the
importance of being possessed of all the information the
subject in question admitted of, which he was determined to
develop in an easy and leisurely manner, without any undue
hurry or heat. “Mr. Sheril,” he said, “the fust thing you’ll
hev to find out is where they be. It’s no use tearin’ round
gen’lly. Where be they? — that’s the question.”

“To be sure, to be sure,” said Uncle Fly. “Well, what
you got to say about that?”

“Wal, you jest set down now, and be kind o’ composed.
I’m a-comin’ to that ’ere pint in time,” said Sam. “That
’ere’s jest what I says to Sol. ‘ Sol,’ says I, ‘where be they'?’
And Sol, he says to me, ‘I dunno. They might ’a’ gone
with the Indians,’ says Sol, ‘or they might ’a’ got lost in the
Oldtown woods;’ and jest as we was a-talkin’, we see old
Obscue a-comin’ along. He was out on a tramp over to

,208

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

Hopkinton, Obscue was, and we asked him about ’em. Wal,
Obscue, he says that a gal and boy like what we talked of
had slep’ in his wife’s hut not long sence. You know Obscue’s
wife; she makes baskets, and goes round sellin’ on ’em. I
couldn’t fairly get out o’ Obscue what day’t was, nor which
way they went arter; but it was clear that them was the
ones.”

“Then,” said Uncle Fly, “they must be somewhere. They
may have lost their way in the Oldtown woods, and wandered
up and down. There ought to be a party started out to look
for ’em to-morrow morning.”

“Now look here, Mr. Sheril,” said Sam, “I think we’d
better kind o’ concentrate our idees on some one pint afore
we start out, and I’ll tell you what I’m a-thinkin’ of. You
know I was a tellin’ you that I’d seen smoke coming out o’
the chimbley of the Dench house. Now I jest thought them
poor little robins might have jest got in there. You know
it stormed like vengeance last week, and the little critters
might have took shelter in that ’ere lonesome old house.”

“ Poor babes ! ” said my grandmother. “ ’Liakim , you go
up there and see.”

“Well, I tell you,” said Uncle Eliakim, “I’ll be up bright
and early with my old horse and waggon , and go over to the
Dench house and see about it.”

“Wal, now,” said Sam, “if you wouldn’t mind, I’ll just
ride over with you. I wanted to kind o’ go over that ’ere
house. I’ve had it on my mind a good while.”

“Is that the haunted house?” said I, in a whisper.

“Wal, it’s the one they call haunted, but ’taint best to be
’fraid of nothin’,” said Sam, surveying me paternally, and
winking very obviously with one eye at Uncle Eliakim : quite
forgetting the long roll of terrible suggestions he had made
on the same subject a few evenings before.

Digitized by Google

sam i.awson’s discoveries.

209 .

“But you told about the man in a long red cloak, and the
boy they threw in a well, and a woman in white.”

“Lordy massy! what ears young ones has!” said Sam,
throwing up his hands pathetically. “I never thought as
you was round, Horace; but you mustn’t never mind nothin’
about it. There ain’t really no such things as ghosts.”

“I want to go over and see the house,” said I.

“Well, well, you shall,” said Uncle Fly; “but you must
wake up bright and early. I shall be off by six o’clock.”
“Well, now, mother,” said Aunt Lois , “I just want to
know if you are going to make our house an asylum for all
the trampers and all the stray children in the neighbouring
parishes? Have we got to keep these children, or are we
going to send ’em back where they belong?”

“Send ’em back to Old Crab Smith and Miss Sphyxy?”
said my grandmother. “I d like to see myself doing that.”
“Well, then, are we going to maintain ’em?” said Aunt
Lois ; “ because I want to know definitely what this is com-
ing to.”

“We’ll see,” said my grandmother. “It’s our business
to do good as we have opportunity. }Ve mustn’t reap the
corners of our fields, nor beat off all our olive-berries , but
leave ’em for the poor, the fatherless, and the widow, Scrip-
ture says.”

“Well, I guess our olive-berries are pretty well beaten off
now, and our fields reaped, corners and all,” said Lois; “and
I don’t see why we needs must intermeddle with children
that the selectmen in Needmore have put out.”

Now Aunt Lois was a first-rate belligerent power in our
family circle, and in many cases carried all before her; but
my grandmother always bore her down on questions like
these, and it was agreed, nem. con., that the expedition to
look up the wanderers should take place the next morning.

Qldtoim Folks. /.

Digitized by Google

210

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

The matter being thus arranged, Sam settled back with a
jocular freedom of manner, surveying the fire, and flopping
his hands over it, smiling to himself in a manner that made
it evident that he had a further reserve of something on his
mind to communicate. “This ’ere Miss Sphyxy Smith’s a
rich old gal, and ’mazin’ smart to work,” he began. “Tell
you, she holds all she gets. Old Sol, he told me a story
’bout her that was a pretty good un.”

“What was it?” said my grandmother.

“ Wal, ye see, you ’member old Parson Jeduthun Kendall,
that lives up in Stonytown: he lost his wife a year ago
last Thanksgiving , and he thought ’t was about time he
hed another; so he comes down and consults our Parson
Lothrop. Says he, ‘I want a good, smart, neat, economical
woman, with a good property. I don’t care nothin’ about
her bein’ handsome. In fact, I ain’t particular about any-
thing else,’ saysdie. ‘ Wal, Parson Lothrop,’ says he, ‘ 1 think,
if that’s the case, I know jest the woman to suit ye. She
owns a clear , handsome property , and she’s neat and econo-
mical; but she’s no beauty.’ ‘0, beauty is nothin’ to me,’
says Parson Kendall; and so he took the direction. Wal,
one day he hitched up his old one-horse shay, and kind o’
brushed up, and started off a-courtin’. Wal, the parson he
come to the house, and he was tickled to pieces with the
looks o’ things outside , ’cause the house is all well shingled
and painted , and there ain’t a picket loose nor a nail wantin’
nowhere. ‘This ’ere ’s the woman for me,’ says Parson
Kendall. So he goes up and raps hard on the front door
with his whip-handle. Wal, you see, Miss Sphyxy, she was
just goin’ out to help get in her hay. She had on a pair o’
clompin’ cowhide boots, and a pitchfork in her hand, just
goin’ out, when she heard the rap. So she come jest as she
was to the front door. Now you know Parson Kendall ’s a

SAM LAWSON’S DISCOVERIES.

211

little midget of a man ; but he stood there on the step kind
o’ smilin’ and genteel, lickin’ his lips and lookin’ so agree-
able. Wal, the front door kind o’ stuck, — front doors gen’ally
do, ye know, ’cause they ain’t opened very often, — and Miss
Sphyxy, she had to pull and haul and put to all her strength,
and finally it come open with a bang, and she ’peared to the
parson, pitchfork and all, sort o’ frowning like.

' “ ‘ What do you want? ’ says she ; 4 for you see Miss Sphyxy
ain’t noways tender to the men.*

44 4 1 want to see Miss Asphyxia Smith,’ says he, very
civil, thinking she was the hired gal.

“ 4 /’m Miss Asphyxia Smith,’ says she. ‘What do you
want o’ me?’

“Parson Kendall, he jest took one good look on her, from
top to toe. ‘Nothin,’ says he, and turned right round and
went down the steps like lightnin’.

“ The way she banged that ’ere door, Sol said, was lively.
He jumped into his shay, and I tell you his old hoss was
waked up for once. The way that ’ere old shay spun and
bounced was a sight. And when he come to Oldtown, Parson
Lothrop was walkin’ out in his wig and cocked hat and
ruffles, as serene as a pictur’, and he too off his hat to him as
handsome as a gentleman could; but Parson Kendall, he driv*
right by and never bowed. He was awful riled, Parson
Kendall was; but he couldn’t say nothin’, ’cause he’d got all
he asked for. But the story got out, and Sol and the men
heard it, and you’d a thought they’d never be done laughin’
about it. Sol says, if he was to be hung for it the next
minute , he never can help laughin’ when he thinks how kind
o’ scared little Parson Kendall looked when Miss Asphyxia
’peared to him on the doorstep.”

“Well, well, well,” said Uncle Eliakim, “if we are going
to the Dench house to-morrow morning, you must all be up

14 *

212

OLDTOWN POLKS.

early, for I mean to be olf by daylight; and we’d better all
£ro to bed.” With which remark he fluttered out of the
kitchen.

“‘Liakim ’ll be along here by ten o’clock to-morrow,” said
my grandfather, quietly. “I don’t suppose he’s promised
more than forty people to do something for them to-morrow
morning.”

“Yes,” said Aunt Lois, u and the linch-pins of the waggon
are probably lost, and the tire of the wheels sprung; but he’ll
be up before daylight, and maybe get along some time in the
. forenoon.”

CHAPTER XVII.

ar

The Visit to the Haunted House.

My story now approaches a point in which I am soon to
meet and begin to feel the force of a train of circumstances
which ruled and shaped my whole life. That I had been
hitherto a somewhat exceptional child may perhaps have
been made apparent in the incidents I have narrated. I was
not, in fact, in the least like what an average healthy boy
ought to be. My brother Bill was exactly that, and nothing
more. He was a good, growing, well-limbed, comfortably-
disposed animal, reasonably docile, and capable, under fair
government, of being made to go exactly in any paths his
elders chose to mark out for him.

It had been settled , the night after my father’s funeral,
that my Uncle Jacob was to have him for a farm-boy, to
work in the summer on the farm , and to pick up his educa-
tion as he might at the district school in the winter season ;
and thus my mother was relieved of the burden of his support,
and Aunt Lois of his superfluous activity in our home depart-
ment. To me the loss was a small one; for except a very

Digitized by Google

THE VISIT TO THE HAUNTED HOUSE.

213

slight sympathy of souls in the matter of fish-hooks and pop-
guns, there was scarcely a single feeling that we had in com-
mon. I had a perfect passion for books, and he had a solid
and well-pronounced horror of them , which seems to belong
to the nature of a growing boy. I could read, as by a kind
of preternatural instinct, as soon as I could walk; and read-
ing was -with me at ten years a devouring passion. No matter
what the book was that was left in my vicinity, I read it as
by an irresistible fascination. To be sure, I preferred stories,
history, and lively narrative, where such material was to be
had; but the passion for reading was like hunger, — it must
be fed , and , in the absence of palatable food , preyed upon
what it could find. So it came to pass that theological tracts,
treatises on agriculture, old sermons,— anything, in short,
that could be raked out of the barrels and boxes in my grand-
father’s garret, — would hold me absorbed in some shady nook
of the house when I ought to have been out playing as a
proper boy should. I did not, of course, understand the half
of what I read, and miscalled the words to myself in a way
that would have been laughable had anybody heard me; but
the strange, unknown sounds stimulated vague and dreamy
images in my mind, which were continually seething, chang-
ing, and interweaving, like fog-wreaths by moonlight, and
formed phantasmagoria in which I took a quaint and solemn
delight.

But there was one peculiarity of my childhood which I
have hesitated with an odd sort of reluctance to speak of,
and yet which so powerfully influenced and determined my
life, and that of all with whom I was connected , that it must
find some place here. I was, as I said, dreamy and imagi-
native, with a mind full of vague yearnings. But beside
that, through an extreme delicacy of nervous organisation,
my childish steps were surrounded by a species of vision or

214

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

»

apparition so clear and distinct that I often found great
difficulty in discriminating between the forms of real life and
these shifting shapes, that had every appearance of reality,
except that they dissolved at the touch. All my favourite
haunts had their particular shapes and forms, which it
afforded me infinite amusement to watch in their varying
movements.

Particularly at night, after I had gone to bed and the
candle was removed from my room, the whole atmosphere
around my bed seemed like that which Raphael has
shadowed forth around his Madonna San Sisto, — a palpi-
tating crowd of faces and forms changing in dim and gliding
quietude. I have often wondered whether any personal
experience similar to mine suggested to the artist this living
background to his picture. For the most part, these phan-
tasms were agreeable to me, and filled me with a dreamy
delight. Sometimes distinct scenes or visions would rise
before my mind, in which I seemed to look far beyond the
walls of the house, and to see things passing wherein were
several actors. I remember one of these , which I saw very
often, representing a venerable old white-headed man playing
on a violin. He was always accompanied by a tall, majestic
woman, dressed in a strange, outlandish costume, in which
I particularly remarked a high fur cap of a peculiar form.
As he played, the woman appeared to move in time to the
music. Another scene which frequently presented itself to
my eyes was that of a green meadow by the side of a lake of
very calm water. From a grove on one side of the lake
would issue a miniature form of a woman clothed in white,
with a wide golden girdle around her waist, and long, black
hair hanging down to her middle, which she constantly
smoothed down with both her hands , with a gentle , rhyth-
mical movement, as she approached me. At a certain point

*

Digitized by Google

TIIE VISIT TO THE HAUNTED HOUSE.

215

of approach, she always turned her back, and began a rapid
retreat into the grove; and invariably as she turned there
appeared behind her the image of a little misshapen dwarf,
who pattered after her with ridiculous movements which
always made me laugh. Night after night, during a certain
year of my life, this pantomine never failed to follow the
extinguishment of the candle, and it was to me a never-failing
source of delight. One thing was peculiar about these forms,
— they appeared to cause a vibration of the great central
nerves of the body, as when a harp-string is struck. So I
could feel in myself the jar of the dwarf’s pattering feet, the
soft, rhythmic movement of the little woman stroking down
her long hair, the vibrations of the violin, and the steps of
the oriental woman. Nobody knew of this still and hidden
world of pleasure which was thus nightly open to me. My
mother used often to wonder, when, hours after she put me
to bed, she would find me lying perfectly quiet, with my
eyes widely and calmly open. Once or twice I undertook
to tell her what I saw, but was hushed up with, “Nonsense,
child! there hasn’t been anybody in the room; you shouldn’t
talk so.”

The one thing that was held above all things sacred and
inviolable in a child’s education in those old Puritan days
was to form habits of truth. Every statement received an
immediate and unceremonious sifting, and anything that
looked in the least like a departure from actual verity was
met with prompt and stringent discouragement. When my
mother repeated before Aunt Lois some of my strange say-
ings, she was met with the downright declaration, “That
child will be an awful liar, Susy, if you don’t keep a strict
look-out on him. Don’t you let him tell you any stories like
that.”

So I early learned silence ; but my own confidence in the

216

OLDTQWN FOLKS.

reality of my secondary world was not a whit diminished.
Like Galileo, who said, “It does move nevertheless, so I,
•when I once had the candle out at night, snapped my fingers
mentally at Aunt Lois, and enjoyed my vision.

One peculiarity of these appearances was that certain of
them seemed like a sort of genii loci ,— shapes belonging to
certain places. The apparition of the fairy woman with the
golden girdle only appeared in a certain room where I slept
one year, and which had across one of its corners a glass
door called a beaufet. From this beaufet the vision took its
rise , and when my parents moved to another house it never
appeared again. 4

A similar event in my shadow- world had marked our
coming to my grandmother’s to live. The old violin-player
and his wife had for a long time been my nightly enter-
tainers; but the first night after we were established in the
apartment given up to our use by Aunt Lois, I saw them
enter as they usually did, seeming to come right through the
wall of the room. They, however, surveyed the apartment
with a sort of confused, discontented movement, and seemed
to talk to each other with their backs to me ; finally I heard
the old woman say, “We can’t stay here,” and immediately
I saw them passing through the wall of the house. I saw
after them as clearly as if the wall had dissolved and given
my eyes the vision of all out of doors. They went to my
grandfather’s wood-pile and look irresolutely round; finally
they mounted on the pile, and seemed to sink gradually
through it and disappear, and I never saw them after-
wards.

But another of the companions of my solitude was more
constant to me. This was the form of a young boy of about
my own age , who for a year past had frequently come to me
at night, and seemed to look lovingly upon me, and with

Digitized by Google

THE VISIT TO THE HAUNTED HOUSE.

217

whom I used to have a sort of social communion, without
words, in a manner which seemed to me far more perfect
than human language. I thought to him, and in return I
received silent demonstrations of sympathy and fellowship
from him. I called him Harvey, and used, as I lay looking
in his face, mentally to tell him many things about the books
I read, the games I played, and the childish joys and griefs
I had; and in return he seemed to express affection and
sympathy by a strange communication, as lovers sometimes
talk to each other by distant glances.

Attendant on all these exceptional experiences, perhaps
resulting from them , was a peculiar manner of viewing the
human beings by whom I was surrounded. It is common
now-a-days to speak of the sphere or emanation that sur-
rounds a person. To my childish mind there was a vivid
perception of something of this nature with regard to every
one whom I approached. There were people for whom I
had a violent and instinctive aversion , whose presence in the
room gave me a pain so positive that it seemed almost
physical, and others, again, to whom I was strongly attracted,
and whose presence near me filled me with agreeable sen-
sations, of which I could give no very definite account. For
this reason, I suppose, the judgments which different people
formed concerning me varied extremely. Miss Mehitable,
for example, by whom I was strongly attracted, thought me
one of the most amiable of boys; while my poor Aunt Lois
was certain I was one of the most trying children that ever
were born.

My poor mother ! I surely loved her, and yet her deficient
vital force, her continual sadness and discouragement, acted
on my nerves as a constant weight and distress, against
which I blindly and instinctively struggled; while Aunt
Lois’s very footstep on the stair seemed to rouse every nerve

218

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

of combativeness in my little body into a state of bristling
tension. I remember that when I was about six or seven
years old I had the scarlet-fever, and Aunt Lois, who was a
most rampant and energetic sick-nurse , undertook to watch
with me; but my cries and resistance were so terrible that I
was thought to be going deranged. Finally the matter was
adjusted by Sam Lawson’s offering to take the place, upon
which I became perfectly tranquil, and resigned myself into
his hands with the greatest composure and decorum. Sam
was to me, during my childhood, a guide, philosopher, and
friend. The lazy, easy, indefinite atmosphere of being that
surrounded him was to me like the haze of Indian summer
over a landscape, and I delighted to bask in it. Nothing
about him was any more fixed than the wavering shadows of
clouds; he was a boundless world of narrative and dreamy
suggestion , tending to no point and having no end , and in
it I delighted. Sam, besides, had a partiality for all those
haunts in which I took pleasure. Near our house was the
Oldtown burying-ground, where reposed the bones of genera-
tions of Indian sachems, elders, pastors, and teachers, con-
verted from the wild forests, who, Christianised and churched,
died in the faith, and were gathered into Christian burial.
On its green hillocks I loved to sit and watch and dream
long after sundown , or moonrise , and fancy I saw bands of
wavering shapes , and hope that some one out of the crowd
might have a smile of recognition or a spiritual word for
me.

My mother and grandmother and Aunt Lois were horror-
stricken by such propensities, indicating neither more nor less
than indefinite coughs and colds, with early death in the rear ;
and however much in the way a little boy always seemed in
those times in the active paths of his elders, yet it was still
esteemed a primary duty to keep him in the world. “Horace,

Digitized by Google

THE VISIT TO THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 219

what do you go and sit in the graveyard for?” would ray
grandmother say. “ I should think you’d be ’fraid something
would ’pear to you.”

44 1 want something to appear, grandmother.”

44 Pshaw, pshaw ! no, you don’t. What do you want to be
so odd for? Don’t you ever say such things.”

Sam, however, was willing to aid and abet me in strolling
and lounging anywhere and at any hour, and lent a willing
ear to my tales of what I saw, and had in his capacious wallet
a pendent story or a spiritual precedent for anything that 1
could mention.

On this night, after he had left me, I went to bed with my
mind full of the haunted house, and all that was to be hoped
or feared from its exploration. Whether this was the cause
or not, the result was that Harvey appeared nearer and more
friendly than ever; and he held by bis hand another boy,
whose figure appeared to me like a faintly discerned form in
a mist. Sometimes the mist seemed to waver and part, and
I caught indistinct glimpses of bright yellow curls and clear
blue eyes, and then Harvey smiled and shook his head.
When he began to disappear, he said to me, “Good-bye;”
and I felt an inward assurance that he was about to leave
me. I said my “Good-bye” aloud, and stretched out my
hands.

“Why, Horace, Horace!” said my mother, waking sud-
denly at the sound of my voice, — “Horace, wake up; you’ve
been dreaming.”

I had not even been asleep, but I did not tell her so, and
turning over, as I usually did when the curtain fell over my
dreamland, I was soon asleep. I was wide awake with the
earliest peep of dawn the next morning, and had finished
dressing myself before my mother awoke.

Ours was an early household , and the brisk tap of Aunt

220

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

Lois’s footsteps, and the rattling of chairs and dishes in the
kitchen, showed that breakfast was in active preparation.

My grandfather’s prediction with regard to my Uncle
Eliakim proved only too correct. The fact was, that the
poor man lived always in the whirl of a perfect Maelstrom of
promises and engagements, which were constantly converging
towards every hour of his unoccupied time. His old waggon
and horse both felt the effects of such incessant activity, and
such deficient care and attention as were consequent upon it,
and were at all times in a state of dilapidation. Therefore
it was that the next morning nine , ten , and eleven o’clock
appeared, and no Uncle Eliakim.

Sam Lawson had for more than two hours been seated in
an expectant attitude on our doorstep; but as the sun shone
warm , and he had a large mug of cider between his hands,
he appeared to enjoy his mind with great equanimity.

Aunt Lois moved about the house with an air and manner
of sharp contempt, which exhibited itself even in the way she
did her household tasks. She put down plates as if she
despised them, and laid sticks of wood on the fire with defiant
thumps, as much as to say that she knew some things that had
got to be in time and place if others were not; but she spake
no word.

AuntLois,asIhave often said before, was a goodChristiau,
and held it her duty to govern her tongue. True, she said
many sharp and bitter things; but nobody but herself and
her God knew how many more she would have said, had she
not reined herself up in conscientious silence. But never was
there a woman whose silence could express more contempt
and displeasure than hers. You could feel it in the air about
you, though she never said a word. You could feel it in the
rustle of her dress, in the tap of her heels over the floor, in
the occasional flash of her sharp, black eye. She was like a

221

»

THE VISIT TO TILR HAUNTED HOUSE.

thundercloud whose quiet is portentous, and from which you
every moment expect a Hash or an explosion. This whole
morning’s excursion was contrary to her mind and judgment,

— aij ill-advised, ill-judged, shiftless proceeding, and being
entered on in a way as shiftless.

“What time do you suppose it is, mother?” she at last '
said to my grandmother, who was busy in her buttery.

“ Massy, Lois! I daren’t look,” called out my grandmother,
who was apt to fall behindhand of her desires in the amount
of work she could bring to pass of a morning. U I don’t want
to know.”

“Well, it’s eleven o’clock,” said Lois, relentlessly, “and
no signs of Uncle ’Liakim yet; and there’s Sam Lawson, I
s’pose he’s going to spend the day on our doorstep.”

Sam Lawson looked after my Aunt Lois as she went out
of the kitchen. “Lordy massy, Horace! I wouldn’t be so
kind o’ unreconciled as she is all the time for nothin’. Now
I might get into a Huster ’cause /’in kep’ a waitin’, but I ■
don’t. I think it’s our duty to be willin’ to wait quiet till
things come round; this ’ere’s a world where things can’t be
driv’, and folks musn’t set their heart on havin’ everything
come out jes so, ’cause ef they do they’ll allers be in a stew,
like Hepsy and Miss Lois there. Let ’em jest wait quiet, and
things allers do come round in the end as well or better ’n ef
you worried.”

And as if to illustrate and justify this train of thought,
Uncle Eliakim’s waggon at this moment came round the
corner of the street, driving at a distracted pace. The good
man came with such headlong speed and vivacity that his
straw hat was taken off by the breeze, and flew far behind
him, and he shot up to our door, as he usually did to that
of the meeting-house, as if he were going to drive straight
in.

Digitized by Google

222

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

“Lordy massy, Mr. Sheril!” said Sam, “don’t, get out; I’ll
get your hat. Horace, you jest run and pick it up; that’s a
good boy.”

I ran accordingly, but my uncle had sprung out as lively
as an autumn grasshopper. “I’ve been through a sea of
troubles this morning,” he said. “I lent my waggin to Jake
Marshall yesterday afternoon, to take his wife a ride. I
thought if Jake was a mind to pay the poor woman any
attention, I’d help; but when he brought it back last night,
one of the bolts was broken, and the harness gave out in two
places.”

“Want to know?” said Sam, leisurely examining the
establishment. “I think the neighbours ought to subscribe
to keep up your team, Mr. Sheril, for it’s free to the hull on
’em.”

“And what thanks does he get?” said Aunt Lois, sharply.
“ Well, Uncle ’Liakim, it’s almost dinner-time.”

“I know it, I know it, I know it, Lois. But there’s been
a lot o’ things to do this morning. Just as I got the waggin
mended, come Aunt Batlisheba Sawin’s boy and put me in
mind that I promised to carry her corn to grind; and I had
to stop and take that round to mill; and then I remembered
the pills that was to go to Hannah Dexter”

“I dare say, and forty more things like it,” said Aunt
Lois.

“Well, jump in now,” said Uncle Fly; “we’ll be over and
back in no time.”

“You may as well put it off till after dinner now,” said
Aunt Lois.

“Couldn’t stop for that,” said Uncle ’Liakim; “my after-
noon is all full now. I’ve got to be in twenty places before
night.” And away we rattled, while Aunt Lois stood looking
after us in silent, unutterable contempt.

Digitized by Google

THE VISIT TO THE nAUNTED HOUSE.

223

“Stop! stop! stop! Whoa! whoa!” said Uncle ’Liakim,
drawing suddenly up. “There’s that plaster for Widdah
Peters, after all. I wonder if Lois wouldn’t just run up with
it.” By this time he had turned the horse, who ran, with his
usual straightforward, blind directness, in a right line against
the doorstep again.

“Well, what now?” said Aunt Lois, appearing at the
door.

“Why, Lois, I’ve just come back to tell you I forgot I
promised to carry Widdah Peters that plaster for lumbago;
couldn’t you just find time to run up there with it?”

“Well, give it to me,” said Aunt Lois, with sharp pre-
cision, and an air of desperate patience.

“Yes, yes, I will,” said Uncle Fly, standing up and begin-
irjg a rapid search into that series of pockets which form a
distinguishing mark of masculine habiliments, — searching
with such hurried zeal that he really seemed intent on tearing
himself to pieces. “Here ’t is! — no, pshaw, pshaw! that’s
my handkerchief! Oh, here! — pshaw, pshaw! Why, where

is it? Didn’t I put it in? — or did I Oh, here it is in my

vest-pocket; no, though. Where a plague!” and Uncle
Fly sprang from the waggon and began his usual active
round-and-round chase after himself, slapping his pockets,
now before and now behind, and whirling like a dancing
dervis, while Aunt Lois stood regarding him with stony com-
posure.

“If you could ever think where anything was, before you
began to talk about it, it would be an improvement,” she
said.

“Well, fact is,” said Uncle Eliakim, “now I think of it,
Mis’ Sheril made me change my coat just as I came out, and
that’s the whole on’t. You just run up, Lois, and tell Mis’
Sheril to send one of the boys down to Widdah Peters’s with

224

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

the plaster she’ll find in the pocket, — right-hand side. Come
now, get up.”

. These last words were addressed, not to Aunt Lois, but to
the horse, who, kept in rather a hungry and craving state by
his master’s hurrying manner of life, had formed the habit
of sedulously improving every spare interval in catching at
a mouthful of anything to eat, and had been accordingly
busy in cropping away a fringe of very green grass that was
growing up by the kitchen doorstep , from which occupation
he was remorselessly twitched up and started on an impetu-
ous canter.

“ Wal, now I hope we’re fairly started,” said Sam Lawson;
“and, Mr. Sheril, you may as well, while you are about it,
take the right road as the wrong one , ’cause that ’ere saves
time. It’s pleasant enough anywhere, to be sure, to-day;
but when a body’s goin’ to a place, a body likes to get there,
as it were.”

“Well, well, well,” said Uncle Fly, “we’re on the right
road, ain’t we?”

“Wal, so fur you be; but when you come out on the
plains, you must hike the fust left-hand road that drives
through the woods, and you may jest as well know as much
aforehand.”

“ Much obliged to you ,” said my uncle. “ I reely hadn’t
thought particularly about the way.”

“S’pose not,” said Sam, composedly; “so it’s jest as well
you took me along. Lordy massy! there ain’t a road nor a
cart-patli round Oldtown that I hain’t been over, time and
time agin. I believe 1 could get through any on ’em the
darkest night that ever was hatched. Jake Marshall and me
has been Indianing round these ’ere woods more times ’n
you could count. It’s kind o’ pleasant, a nice bright day
like this ’ere , to be a joggin’ along in the woods. Every-

THE VISIT T# THE HAUNTED HOUSE.

225

thiDg bo sort o’ still, ye know; and ye hear the chestnuts a
droppiu’, and the wa’nuts. Jake and me, last fall, went up
by Widdah Peters’s one day, and shuck them trees, and got
nigh about a good bushel o’ wa’nuts. 1 used to kind o’ like
to crack ’em for the young ’uns, nights, last winter, when
Hepsy ’d let ’em sit up. Though she’s alters for drivin’ on
’em all off to bed, and makin’ it kind o’ solitary, Hepsy
is.” And Sam concluded the conjugal allusion with a deep
sigh.

“Have you ever been into the grounds of the Dench
house?” said Uncle Fly.

“ Wal, no, not reely; but Jake, he has; and ben into the
house too. There was a fellow named ’Biah Smith that used
to be a kind o’ servant to the next family that come in after
Lady Frankland went out, and he took Jake all over it once
when there wa’n’t nobody there. ’Biah, he said that when
Sir Harry lived there , there was one room that was always
kept shet up, and wa’n’t never gone into, and in that ’ere
room there was the long red cloak, and the bat and sword,
and all the clothes he had on when he was buried under the
ruins in that ’ere earthquake. They said that every year,
when the day of the earthquake come round , Sir Harry used
to spend it a fastin’ and prayin’ in that ’ere room , all alone.
’Biah says that he had talked with a fellow that was one of
Sir Harry’s body-servants , and he told him that Sir Harry
used to come out o’ that ’ere room lookin’ more like a ghost
than a live man, when he’d fasted and prayed for twenty-
four hours there. Nobody knows what might have ’peared
to him there.”

I wondered much in my own quiet way at this story , and
marvelled whether, in Sir Harry’s long, penitential watchings,
he had seen the air of the room ail tremulous with forms and
faces such as glided around me iii my solitary hours.

Oldtoicn Folks . /. 15

2 26

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

u Naow, you see,” said Sam Lawson, u when the earthquake
come, Sir Harry, he was a driving with a court lady; and
she, poor soul, went into ’tarnity in a minit, — ’thout a minit
to prepare. And I ’spect there ain’t no reason to s’pose but
what she was a poor, mis’able Roman Catholic. So her
prospects couldn’t have been noways encouragin’. And it
must have borne on Sir Harry’s mind to think she should be
took and he spared, when he was a cuttin’ up just in the
way he was. I shouldn’t wonder but she should ’pear to
him. You know they say there is a woman in white walks
them grounds, and ’Biah ! , he says, as near as he can find
out, it’s that ’ere particular chamber as she allers goes to.
’Biah said he’d seen her at the windows a wringin’ her hands
and a cryin’ fit to break her heart, poor soul. Kind o’ makes
a body feel bad, ’cause, arter all, ’twan’t her fault she was
born a Roman Catholic, — now, was it?”

The peculiarity of my own mental history had this effect
on me from a child , that it wholly .took away from me all
dread of the supernatural. A world of shadowy forms had
always been as much a part of my short earthly experience
as the more solid and tangible one of real people. I had just
as quiet and natural a feeling about one as the other. I had
not the slightest doubt, on hearing Sam’s story, that the
form of the white lady did tenant those deserted apartments ;
and so far from feeling any chill or dread in the idea, I felt
only a sort of curiosity to make her acquaintance.

Our way to the place wound through miles of dense forest .
Sir Harry had chosen it, as a retreat from the prying eyes
and slanderous tongues of the world, in a region of wood-
land solitude. And as we trotted leisurely under the bright
scarlet and yellow boughs of the forest, Uncle Eliakim and
Sam discoursed of the traditions of the place we were
going to.

Digitized by Google

THE VISIT TO THE HAUNTED HOUSE.

227

“ Who was it bought the place after Lady Frankland went
to England?” said Uncle Eliakim.

“ Wal, I believe ’twas let a spell. There was some French
folks hed it ’long through the war. I heerd tell that they
was pretty high people. I never could quite make out when
they went off; there was a good many stories round about
it. I didn’t clearly make out how ’twas, till Dench got it.
Dench, you know, got his money in a pretty peculiar way,
ef all they says ’s true.”

“ How’s that?” said my uncle.

“Wal, they do say he got the great carbuncle that was at
the bottom of Sepaug River. You’ve heard about the great
carbuncle, I s’pose?”

“Oh, no! do pray tell me about it,” said I, interrupting
with fervour.

“Why, didn’t you never hear ’bout that? want to know?
Wal, I’ll tell ye, then. I know all ’bout it. Jake Marshall,
he told me that Dench fust told him , and he got it from old
Mother Ketury, ye know, — a regular old heathen Injun
Ketury is, — and folks do go so fur as to say that in the old
times Ketury ’d ’a’ ben took up for a witch , though I never
see no harm in her ways. Ef there be sperits, and we all
know there is, what’s the harm o’ Ketury ’s seeing on ’em?”

“ Maybe she can’t help seeing them ,” suggested I.

“ Jes’ so, jes’ so; that ’ere’s what I tolled Jake when we’s
a talkin’ it over, and he said he didn’t like Dench’s havin’ so
much to do with old Ketury. But la! old Ketury could say
the Lord’s Prayer in Injun, cause I’ve heard her; though
she wouldn’t say it when she didn’t want to and she would
say it when she did,— jest as the fit took her. But lordy
massy ! them wild Injuns, they ain’t but jest half folks, they’re
so kind o’ wild, and birchy and bushy as a body may say.
Ef they take religion at all , it’s got to be in their own way.

15 *

228

OLDTOWN POLKS.

Ef you get the wild beast all out o’ ’em, there don’t somehow
seem to be enough left to make an ordinary smart man of,
so much on ’em’s wild. Anyhow, Dench, he was thick with
Ketury, and she told him all about the great carbuncle, and
gin him directions how to get it.”

“But I don’t know what a great carbuncle is,” I in-
terrupted.

“ Lordy massy , boy ! didn’t you never read in your Bible
about the New Jerusalem, and the precious stones in the
foundation, that shone like the sun? Wal, the carbuncle
was one on ’em.”

“Did it fall down out of heaven into the river?” said I.

“Mebbe,” said Sam. “At any rate Ketury, she told ’em
what they had to do to get it. They had to go out arter it
jest exactly at twelve o’clock at night, when the moon was
full. You was to fast all the day before, and go fastin’, and
say the Lord’s Prayer in Injun afore you went; and when
you come to where ’twas, you was to dive after it. But
there wan’t to be a word spoke; if there was, it went right
oft.”

“What did they have to say the prayer in Indian for?”
said I.

“Lordy massy, boy! I ’spose ’twas ’cause ’twas Indian
sperits kep’ a watch over it. Any rate ’twas considerable of
a pull on ’em, ’cause Ketury, she had to teach ’em; and she
wan’t allers in the spirit on’t. Sometimes she’s crosser ’n
torment, Ketuiy is. Dench, he gin her fust and last as much
as ten dollars, — so Jake says. However, they got all through
with it, and then come a moonlight night, and they went out.
Jake says it was the splendidest moonlight ye ever did see,
— all jest as still, — only the frogs and the turtles kind o’
peepin’ ; and they didn’t say a word , and rowed out past the
pint there, where the water’s ten feet deep, and he looked

THE VISIT TO THE HAUNTED HOUSE.

229

down and see it a-sliinin’ on the bottom like a great star,
making the waters all light like a lantern. Dench , he dived
for it, Jake said; and he saw him put his hand right on it;
and he was so tickled, you know, to see he’d got it, that he
couldn’t help hollerin’ right out, ‘There, you got it!’ and it
was gone. Dench was mad enough to ’a’ killed him; ’cause
when it goes that ’ere way , you can’t see it agin for a year
and a day. But two or three years arter, all of a sudden,
Dench, he seemed to kind o’ spruce up and have a deal o’
money to spend. He said an uncle had died and left it to
him in England; but Jake Marshall says you’ll never take
him in that ’ere way. He says he thinks it’s no better ’n
witchcraft, getting money that ’ere way. Ye see Jake was to
have had half if they’d ’a’ got it , and not gettin’ nothin’ kind
o’ sot him to thinkin’ on it in a moral pint o’ view, ye know.
But, lordy massy! where be we, Mr. Sheril? This ’ere’s
the second or third time we’ve come round to this ’ere old
dead chestnut. We ain’t makin’ no progress.”

In fact there were many and crossing cart-paths through
this forest , which had been worn by different farmers of the
vicinity in going after their yearly supply of wood; and not-
withstanding Sam’s assertion of superior knowledge in these
matters, we had , in the negligent inattention of his narrative,
'become involved in this labyrinth, and driven up and down,
and back and forward, in the wood, without seeming at all to
advance upon our errand.

“Wal, I declare for’t, I never did see nothing beat it,”
said Sam. “We’ve been goin’ jest round and round for this
hour or more , and come out again at exactly the same place.
I’ve heerd of places that’s kep’ hid, and folks allers gets sort
o’ struck blind and confused that undertakes to look ’em up.
Wal, I don’t say I believe in sich stories, but this ’ere is
curous. Why, I’d ’a’ thought I could ’a’ gone straight to it

Digitized by Google

230

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

blindfolded, any day. Ef Jake Marshall was here, he’d go
straight to it.”

“Well, Sam,” said Uncle Eliakim, “it’s maybe because
you and me got so interested in telling stories that we’ve
missed the way.”

“That ’ere’s it, ’thout a doubt,” said Sam. “Now I’ll just
hush up , and kind o’ concentrate my ’tention. I’ll just git
out and walk a spell, and take an observation.”

The result of this improved attention to the material facts
of the case was , that we soon fell into a road that seemed to
wind slowly up a tract of rising ground , and to disclose to
our view, through an interlacing of distant boughs, the
western horizon, toward which the sun was now sinking with
long, level beams. We had been such a time in our wander-
ings , that there seemed a prospect of night setting in before
we should be through with our errand and ready to return.

“ The house stan’s on the top of a sort o’ swell o’ ground,”
said Sam; “and as nigh as I can make it out, it must be
somewhere about there.”

“There is a woman a little way before us,” said I; “why
don’t you ask her?”

I saw very plainly in a turn of the road a woman whose
face was hidden by a bonnet, who stood as if waiting for us.
It was not the white woman of ghostly memory, but ap-
parently a veritable person in the every-day habiliments of
common life, who stood as if waiting for us.

“I don’t see no woman,” said Sam, “where is she?”

I pointed with my finger , but as I did so the form melted
away. I remember distinctly the leaves of the trees back of
it appearing through it as through a gauze veil, and then it
disappeared entirely.

“ There isn’t any woman that I can see ,” said Uncle Elia-

Digitized by Google

THE VISIT TO THE HAUNTED HOUSE.

231

kim, briskly. “The afternoon sun must have got into your
eyes, boy.”

I had been so often severely checked and reproved for
stating what I saw, that I now determined to keep silence,
whatever might appear to me. At a little distance before us
the road forked , one path being steep and craggy , and the
other easier of ascent, and apparently going in much the same
general direction. A little in advance, in the more rugged
path, stood the same female form. Her face was hidden by a
branch of a tree, but she beckoned to us. “Take that path,
Uncle ’Liakim,” said I; “it’s the right one.”

“Lordy massy!” said Sam Lawson, “how in the world
should you know that? That ’ere is the shortest road to the
Dench house, and the other leads away from it.”

I kept silence as to my source of information, and still
watched the figure. As we passed it, I saw a beautiful face,
with a serene and tender expression, and her hands were
raised as if in blessing. I looked back earnestly and she was
gone.

A few moments after, we were in the grounds of the place,
and struck into what had formerly been the carriage-way,
though now overgrown with weeds, and here and there with
a jungle of what was once well-kept ornamental shrubbery.
A tree had been uprooted by the late tempest, and blown
down across the road, and we had to make quite a little
detour to avoid it.

“Now how are we to get into this house?” said Uncle
Eliakim. “No doubt it’s left fastened up.”

“Do you see that ?” said Sam Lawson, who had been
gazing steadily upward at the chimneys of the house, with
his eyes shaded by one of his great hands. “Look at that
smoke from the middle ehimbly.”

“There’s somebody in the house, to be sure,” said Uncle

232

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

Eliakim; “ suppose we knock at the front door here?” — and
with great briskness , suiting the action to the word , he lifted
the black serpent knocker, and gave such a rat-tat-tat as
must have roused all the echoes of the old house , while Sam
Lawson and I stood by him, expectant on the front steps.

Sam then seated himself composedly on a sort of bench
which was placed under the shadow of the porch, and awaited
the result with the contentment of a man of infinite leisure.
Uncle Eliakim, however, felt pressed for time, and therefore
gave another long and vehement rap. Very soon a chirping
of childish voices was heard behind the door, and a pattering
of feet; there appeared to be a sort of consultation; '

“ There they be now,” said Sam Lawson, “jest as I told
you.”

“Please go round to the back-door,” said a childish voice;
“this is locked, and I can’t open it.”

We all immediately followed Sam Lawson, who took
enormous strides over the shrubbery, and soon I saw the
vision of a curly-headed, blue-eyed boy holding open the side
door of the house.

I ran up to him. “Are you Harvey?” I said.

“No,” he answered; “my name isn’t Harvey, it’s Harry;
and this is my sister Tina,” — and immediately a pair of dark
eyes looked over his shoulder.

“Well, we’ve come to take you to my grandmother’s
house,” said I.

I don’t know how it was , but I always spoke of our do-
mestic establishment under the style and title of the female
ruler. It was grandmother’s house.

“I am glad of it,” said the boy, “for we have tried two or
three times to find our way to Oldtown , and got lost in the
woods, and had to come back here again.”

Here the female partner in the concern stepped a little

Digitized by Google

THE VISIT TO THE HAUNTED HOUSE.

233

forward , eager for her share in the conversation. “Do you
know old Sol?” she said.

“ Lordy massy ! I do,” said Sam Lawson , quite delighted
at this verification of the identity of the children. “Yes, I
see him only day afore yesterday, and he was ’quirin’ arter
you, and we thought we’d find you over in this ’ere house,
’cause I’d seen smoke a cornin’ out o’ the chimblies. Had a
putty good time in the old house , I reckon. Ben all over it
pretty much, han’t ye?”

“0 yes,” said Tina; “and it’s such a strange old place, —
a great big house with ever so many rooms in it!”

“ Wal, we’ll jest go over it, being as we’re here,” said
Sam; and into it we all went.

Now there was nothing in the world that little Miss Tina
took more native delight in than in playing the hostess. To
entertain was her dearest instinct, and she hastened with all
speed to open before us all in the old mansion that her own
rummaging and investigating talents had brought to light,
chattering meanwhile with the spirit of a bobolink.

“You don’t know,” she said to Sam Lawson, “what a
curious little closet there is in here, with book-cases and
drawers, and a looking-glass in the door, with a curtain
over it.”

“Want to know?” said Sam. “Wal, that ’ere docs beat
all. It’s some of them old English folks’s grander, I s’pose.”

“ Aud here’s a picture of such a beautiful lady , that al-
ways looks at you, whichever way you go, — just see.”

“Lordy massy! so’t does. Wal, now, them drawers,
mebbe, have got curous things in ’em,” suggested Sam.

“0 yes, but Harry never would let me look in them. I
tried, though, once when Harry was gone: but, if you’ll be-
lieve me, they’re all locked.”

234

'OLDTOWN FOLKS.

“Want to know?” said Sam. “That ’ere’s a kind o’ pity,
now.”

“Would you open them? You wouldn’t, would you?”
said the little one , turning suddenly round and opening her
great wide eyes full on him. “Harry said the place wasn’t
ours, and it wouldn’t be proper.”

“Wal, he’s a nice boy; quite right in him. Little folks
mustn’t touch things that ain’t their’n,” said Sam, who was
strong on the moralities; though, after all, when all the rest
had left the apartment, I looked back and saw him giving a
sly tweak to the drawers of the cabinet on his own individual
account.

“I was jest a makin’ sure, you know, that ’twas all safe,”
he said, as he caught my eye, and saw that he was dis-
covered.

Sam revelled and expatiated, however, in the information
that lay before him in the exploration of the house. No
tourist with Murray’s guide-book in hand , and -with travels
to prepare for publication , ever went more patiently through
the doing of a place. Not a door was left closed that could
be opened; not a passage unexplored. Sam’s head came
out dusty and cobwebby between the beams of the ghostly
old garret, where mouldy relics of antique furniture were
reposing, and disappeared into the gloom of the spacious
cellars , where the light was as darkness. He found none of
the marks of the traditional haunted room ; but he prolonged
the search till there seemed a prospect that poor Uncle
Eliakim would have to get him away by physical force , if we
meant to get home in time for supper.

“Mr. Lawson, you don’t seem to remember we haven’t any
of us had a morsel of dinner, and the sun is actually going
down. The folks’ll be concerned about us. Come, let’s take
the children and be off.”

tina’s adoption.

235

And so we mounted briskly into the waggon, and the old
horse , vividly impressed with the idea of barn and hay at the
end of his toils, seconded the vigorous exertions of Uncle
Fly, and we rattled and spun on our homeward career, and
arrived at the farmhouse a little after moonrise.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Tina’s Adoption.

During the time of our journey to the enchanted ground,
my Aunt Lois, being a woman of business, who always knew
precisely what she was about, had contrived not only to finish
meritoriously her household tasks , and to supplement Uncle
Eliakim’s forgetful benevolence, but also to make a call on
Miss Mehitable Iiossiter , for the sake of unburdening to her
her oppressed heart. For Miss Mehitable bore in our family
circle the repute of being a woman of counsel and sound
wisdom. The savour of ministerial stock being yet strong
about her, she was much resorted to for advice in difficult
cases.

“I don’t object, of course, to doing for the poor and
orphaned, and all that,” said Aunt Lois, quite sensibly, “but
I like to see folks seem to know what they are doing, and
where they are going , and not pitch and tumble into things
without asking what’s to come of them. Now, we’d just got
Susy and the two boys on our hands, and here will come
along a couple more children to-night; and I must say I don’t
see what’s to be done with them.”

“It’s a pity you don’t take snuff,” said Miss Mehitable,
with a whimsical grimace. “Now, when I come to any of
the cross-places of life, where the road isn’t very clear, I just
take a pinch of snuff and wait; but as you don’t, just stay
and get a cup of tea with me, in a quiet, Christian way, and

Digitized by Google

236

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

after it we will walk round to your mother’s and look at these
children.” •

Aunt Lois was soothed in her perturbed spirit by this pro-
position; and it was owing to this that, when we arrived at
home , long after dark , we found Miss Mehitable in the circle
around the blazing kitchen fire. The table was still standing
with ample preparations for an evening meal, — a hot smoking
loaf of rye and Indian bread, and a great platter of cold
boiled beef and pork, garnished with cold potatoes and
turnips, the sight of which, to a party who had had no dinner
all day , was most appetising.

My grandmother’s reception of the children was as motherly
as if they had been of her own blood. In fact , their beauty
and evident gentle breeding won for them immediate favour
in all eyes.

The whole party sat down to the table , and , after a long
and somewhat scattering grace, pronounced by Uncle Eliakim,
fell to with a most amazing appearance of enjoyment. Sam’s
face waxed luminous as he buttered great blocks of smoking
brown bread with the fruits of my grandmother’s morning
churning, and refreshed himself by long and hearty pulls at
the cider-mug.

“I tell you,” he said, “when folks hes been a ridin’ on an
empty stomach ever since breakfast, victuals is victuals; we
learn how to be thankful for ’em ; so I’ll take another slice o’
that ’ere beef, and one or two more cold potatoes and the
vinegar, Mr. Sheril. Wal, chillen, this ere’s better than
bein’ alone in that ’ere old house, ain’t it?”

“Yes, indeed,” piped Tina; “I had begun to be quite
discouraged. We tried and tried to find our way to Oldtown,
and always got lost in the woods.” Seeing that this remark
elicited sympathy in the listeners, she added, “I was afraid

Digitized by Google

tixa’s adoption.

237

we should die there, and the robins would have to cover us
up, like some children papa used to tell about.”

“Poor babes! just hear ’em,” said my grandmother, who
seemed scarcely to restrain herself from falling on the necks
of the children, in the ardour of her motherly kindness, while
she doubled up an imaginary fist at Miss Asphyxia Smith,
and longed to give her a piece of her mind touching her treat-
ment of them.

Harry remained modestly silent; but he and I sat to-
gether , and our eyes met every now and then with that quiet
amity to which I had been accustomed in my spiritual friend.
I felt a cleaving of spirit to him that I had never felt towards
any human being before, — a certainty that something had
come to me in him that I had always been wanting, — and I
was too glad for speech.

He was one of those children who retreat into themselves
and make a shield of quietness and silence in the presence of
many people, while Tina, on the other hand, was electrically
excited, waxed brilliant in colour, and rattled and chattered
with as fearless confidence as a cat-bird.

“Come hither to me, little maiden,” said Miss Mehitable,
with a whimsical air of authority, when the child had done
her supper. Tina came to her knee, and looked up into the
dusky, homely face, in that still, earnest fashion in which
children seem to study older people.

“Well, how do you like me?” said Miss Mehitable, when
this silent survey had lasted an appreciable time.

The child still considered attentively, looking long into
the great, honest, open eyes, and then her face suddenly
rippled and dimpled all over like a brook when a sunbeam
strikes it. “I do like you. I think you are good,” she said,
putting out her hands impulsively.

“Then up you come,” said Miss Mehitable, lifting her into

238

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

her lap. “ It’s well you like me, because, for aught you know,
I ma^ be an old fairy; and if I didn’t like you, I might turn
you into a mouse or a cricket. Now how would you like
that?”

“You couldn’t do it,” said Tina, laughing.

“How do you know I couldn’t?”

“Well, if you did turn me into a mouse, I’d gnaw your
knitting- work ,” said Tina, laying hold of Miss Mehitable’s
knitting. “You’d be glad to turn me back again.”

“Heyday! I must take care how I make a mouse of you,
I see. Perhaps I’ll make you into a kitten.”

“ Well , I’d like to be a kitten, if you’ll keep a ball for me
to play with, and give me plenty of milk,” said Tina, to
whom no proposition seemed to be without possible ad-
vantages.

“ Will you go home and live with me, and be my kitten?”
Tina had often heard her brother speak of finding a good
woman who should take care of her; and her face immediately
became grave at this proposal. She seemed to study Miss
Mehitable in a new way. “Where do you live?” she said.
“Oh, my house is only a little way from here.”

“And may Harry come to see me?”

“ Certainly he may.”

“Do you want me to work for you all the time?” said
Tina; “because,” she added in a low voice, “I like to play
sometimes, and Miss Asphyxia said that was wicked.”

“Didn’t I tell you I wanted you for my little white kitten?”
said Miss Mehitable, with an odd twinkle. “What work do
you suppose kittens do?”

“Must I grow up and catch rats?” said the child.
“Certainly you will be likely to,” said Miss Mehitable,
solemnly. “I shall pity the poor rats when you are grown
up.

tina’s adoption.

239

Tina looked in the humorous, twinkling old face with a
gleam of mischievous comprehension, and, throwing her arms
around Miss Mehitable, said, “Yes, I like you, and I will be
your kitten.”

There was a sudden, almost convulsive pressure of the
little one to the kind old breast, and Miss Mehitable’s face
wore a strange expression, that looked like the smothered
pang of some great anguish blended with a peculiar tender-
ness. One versed in the reading of spiritual histories might
have seen that, at that moment, some inner door of that old
heart opened, not without a grating of pain, to give a re-
fuge to the little orphan; but opened it was, and a silent
inner act of adoption had gone forth. Miss Mehitable
beckoned my grandmother and Aunt Lois into a corner of
the fireplace by themselves, while Sam Lawson was entertain-
ing the rest of the circle by reciting the narrative of our day’s
explorations.

“Now I suppose I’m about as fit to undertake to bring up
a child as the old Dragon of Wantley,” said Miss Mehitable;
“ but as you seem to have a surplus on your hands, I’m willing
to take the girl and do what I can for her.”

“Dear Miss Mehitable, what a mercy it’ll be to her!”
said my grandmother and Aunt Lois, simultaneously; — “if
you feel that you can afford it,” added Aunt Lois con-
siderately.

“ Well, the fowls of the air and the lilies of the field are
taken care of somehow, as we are informed,” said Miss
Mehitable. “My basket and store are not much to ask a
blessing on , but I have a sort of impression that an orphan
child will make it none the less likely to hold out.”

“There’ll always be a handful of meal in the barrel and a
little oil in the cruse for you, I’m sure,” said my grandmother;
“ the word of the Lord stands sure for that.”

240

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

A sad shadow fell over Miss Mehitable’s face at these
words , and then the usual expression of quaint humour stole
over it. “It’s to lie hoped that Polly will take the same view
of the subject that you appear to,” said she. “My authority
over Polly is, you know, of an extremely nominal kind.”
“Still,” said my grandmother, “you must be mistress in
your own house. Polly, I am sure, knows her duty to you.”
“Polly’s idea of allegiance is very much like that of the
old Spanish nobles to their king; it used to run somewhat
thus: ‘We, who are every way as good as you are, promise
obedience to your government if you maintain our rights
and liberties, but if not, not.’ Now Polly’s ideas of ‘rights
and liberties ’ are of a very set and particular nature , and I
have found her generally disposed to make a good fight for '
them. Still, after all,” she added, “the poor old thing loves
me, and I think will be willing to indulge me in having a
doll , if I really am set upon it. The only way 1 can carry
my point with Polly is to come down on her with a perfect
avalanche of certainty , and so I have passed my word to you
that I will be responsible for this child. Polly may scold
and fret for a fortnight; but she is too good a Puritan to
question whether people shall keep their promises. Polly
abhors covenant-breaking with all her soul, and so in the end
she will have to help me through.”

“It’s a pretty child,” said my grandmother, “and an engag-
ing one, and Polly may come to liking her,”

“There’s no saying,” said Miss Mehitable. “You never
know what you may find in the odd corners of an old maid’s
heart, when you fairly look into them. There are often
unused hoards of maternal affection enough to set up an
orphan-asylum; but it’s like iron filings and a magnet, — you
must try them with a live child, and if there is anything in
’em, you find it out. That little object,” she said, looking

Digitized by Google

tina’s adoption.

241

over her shoulder at Tina , “ made an instant commotion in
the dust and rubbish of my forlorn old garret, and brought
to light a deal that I thought had gone to the moles and the
bats long ago. She will do me good, I can feel, with her
little pertnesses and her airs and fancies. If you could know
how chilly and lonesome an old house gets sometimes , par-
ticularly in autumn , when the equinoctial storm is brewing !
A lively child is a godsend, even if she turns the whole house
topsy-turvy. 1 ’

“Well, a child can’t always be a plaything,” said Aunt
Lois; “it’s a solemn and awful responsibility.”

“And if I don’t take it, who will?” said Miss Mehitable,
gravely. “If a better one would, I wouldn’t. I’ve no great
confidence in myself. I profess no skill in human cobbling.
I can only give house-room and shelter and love, and let
come what will come. ‘A man cannot escape what is written
on his forehead,’ the Turkish proverb says, and this poor
child’s history is all forewritten.”

“ The Lord will bless you for your goodness to the orphan,”
said my grandmother.

“I don’t know about its being goodness. I take a fancy
to her. I hunger for the child. There’s no merit in wanting
your bit of cake , and maybe biking it when it isn’t good for
you; but let’s hope all’s well that ends well. Since I have
fairly claimed her for mine, I begin to feel a fierce right of
property in her, and you’d see me fighting like an old hen
with anybody that should try to get her away from me.
You’ll see me made an old fool of by her smart little ways
and speeches; and I already am proud of her beauty. Did
you ever see a brighter little minx?”

We looked across to the other end of the fireplace, where
Miss Tina sat perched, with great contentment, on Sam
Lawson’s knee, listening with wide-open eyes to the accounts
Oldtown Folks . 1.

Digitized by Google

242

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

he was giving of the haunted house. The beautiful hair that
Miss Asphyxia had cut so close had grown with each day,
till now it stood up in half rings of reddish gold, through
which the fire shone with a dancing light; and her great eyes
seemed to radiate brightness from as many points as a
diamond.

“Depend upon it, those children are of good blood,” said
Miss Mehitable , decisively. “You’ll never make me believe
that they will not be found to belong in some way to some
reputable stock.”

“Well, we know nothing about their parents ,” said my
grandmother, “except what we heard second-hand through
Sam Lawson. It was a wandering woman, sick and a stranger,
who was taken down and died in Old Crab Smith’s house,
over in Needmore.”

“ One can tell, by the child’s manner of speaking, that she
has been brought up among educated people,” said Miss
Mehitable. “She is no little rustic. The boy, too, looks
of the fine clay of the earth. But it’s time for me to take
little Miss Rattlebrain home with me, and get her into bed.
Sleep is a gracious state for children, and the first step in
my new duties is a plain one.” So saying, Miss Mehitable
rose , and , stepping over to the other side of the fireplace,
tapped Tina lightly on the shoulder. “Come, pussy,” she
said, “get your bonnet, and we will go home.”

Hany, who had watched all the movements between Miss
Mehitable and his sister with intense interest, now stepped
forward, blushing very much, but still with a quaint little old-
fashioned air of manliness. “Is my sister going to live with
you?”

“ So we have agreed, my little man,” said Miss Mehitable.
“I hope you have no objection?”

“Will you let me come and see her sometimes?”

tina’s adoption.

243

“Certainly; you will always be quite welcome.”

“ 1 want to see her sometimes, because my mother left her
under my care. I shan’t have a great deal of time to come
in the daytime, because I must work for my living,” he said,
“ but a little while sometime at night, if you would let me.”
“And what do you work at?” said Miss Mehitable, survey-
ing the delicate boy with an air of some amusement.

“ I used to pick up potatoes , and fodder the cattle , and
do a great many things ; and I am growing stronger every
day, and by and by can do a great deal more.”

“ Well said, sonny,” said my grandfather, laying his hand
on his head. “You speak like a smart boy. We can have
you down to help tend sawmill.”

“I wonder how many more boys will be wanted to help
tend sawmill,” said Aunt Lois.

“Well, good night all,” said Miss Mehitable, starting to
go home.

Tina, however, stopped and left her side, and threw her
arms round Harry’s neck and kissed him. “Good-night now.
You’ll come and see me to-morrow,” she said.

“May I come too?” I said, almost before I thought.

“Oh, certainly, do come,” said Tina, with that warm,
earnest light in her eyes which seemed the very soul of
hospitality. “She’ll like to have you, I know.”

“The child is taking possession of the situation at once,”
said Miss Mehitable. “Well, Brighteyes, you may come
too,” she added to me. “A precious row there will be among
the old books when you all get together there;” — and Miss
Mehitable, with the gay, tripping figure by her side , left the
room.

“Is this great, big, dark house yours?” said the child, as
they came under the shadow of a dense thicket of syringas
and lilacs that overhung the front of the house.

16 *

244

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

“ Yes, this is Doubting Castle,” said Miss Mehitable.

“And does Giant Despair live here ? ” said Tina. “ Mamma
showed me a picture of him once in a book.”

“Well, he has tried many times to take possession,” said
Miss Mehitable, “but I do what I can to keep him out, and
you must help me.”

Saying this, she opened the door of a large, old-fashioned
room , that appeared to have served both the purposes of a
study and parlour. It was revealed to view by the dusky,
uncertain glimmer of a wood fire that had burnt almost down
on a pair of tall brass andirons. The sides of the room were
filled to the ceiling with book-cases full of books. Some dark
portraits of men and women were duskily revealed by the
flickering light, as well as a wide, ample-bosomed chintz-
covered easy-chair. A table draped with a green cloth stood
in a corner by the fire , strewn over with books and writing-
materials, and sustaining a large work-basket.

“How dark it is!” said the child.

Miss Mehitable took a burning splinter of the wood , and
lighted a candle in a tall , plated candlestick , that stood on
the high, narrow mantel-piece over the fireplace. At this
moment a side-door opened, and a large-boned woman,
dressed in a home-spun stuff petticoat, with a short, loose
sack of the same material , appeared at the door. Her face
was freckled; her hah, of a carroty -yellow, was plastered
closely to her head and secured by a horn comb; her eyes
were so sharp and searching, that, as she fixed them on Tina,
she blinked involuntarily. Around her neck she wore a large
string of gold beads , the brilliant gleam of which , catching
the firelight, revealed itself at once to Tina’s eye, and caused
her to regard the woman with curiosity.

She appeared to have opened the door with an intention
of asking a question ; but stopped and surveyed the child with

Digitized by Google

tina’s adoption.

245

a sharp expression of not very well-pleased astonishment.
“I thought you spoke to me,” she said, at last, to Miss
Mehitable.

“You may warm my bed now, Polly,” said Miss Mehitable;
“I shall be ready to go up in a few moments.”

Polly stood a moment more, as if awaiting some com-
munication about the child; but as Miss Mehitable turned
away, and appeared to be busying herself about the fire,
Polly gave a sudden windy dart from the room , and closed
the door with a bang that made the window-casings rattle.

“Why, what did she do that for?” said Tina.

“ Oh , it’s Polly’s way ; she does everything with all her
might,” said Miss Mehitable.

“Don’t she like me t n said the child.

“Probably not. She knows nothing about you , and she
does not like new things.”

“But won’t she ever like me?” persisted Tina.

“ That , my dear, will depend in a great degree on yourself.
If she sees that you are good and behave well, she will
probably end by liking you ; but old people like her are afraid
that children will meddle with their things , and get them out
of place.”

“1 mean to be good,” said Tina, resolutely. “When I
lived with Miss Asphyxia, I wanted to be bad, I tried to be
bad ; but now I am changed. I mean to be good , because
you are good to me ,” and the child laid her head confidingly
in Miss Mehitable’s lap.

The dearest of all flattery to the old and uncomely is this
caressing, confiding love of childhood, and Miss Mehitable
felt a glow of pleasure about her dusky old heart at which
she really wondered. “Can anything so fair really love meV *
she asked herself. Alas! how much of this cheap-bought
happiness goes to waste daily! While unclaimed children

246

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

grow up loveless , men and women wither in lonely , craving
solitude.

Polly again appeared at the door. “ Your bed’s all warm,
and you’d better go right up , else what’s the use of warming
it?”

“Yes, I’ll come immediately,” said Miss Mehi table,
endeavouring steadfastly to look as if she did not see Polly’s
looks, and to act as if there had of course always been a little
girl to sleep with her.

“Come, my little one.” My little one ! Miss Mehitable’s
• heart gave a great throb at this possessive pronoun. It all
seemed as strange to her as a dream. A few hours ago, and
she sat in the old windy, lonesome house, alone with the
memories of dead friends, and feeling herself walking to the
grave in a dismal solitude. Suddenly she awoke as from a
dark dream, and found herself sole possessor of beauty,
youth, and love, in a glowing little form, all her own, with no
mortal to dispute it. She had a mother’s right in a child.
She might have a daughter’s love. The whole house seemed
changed. The dreary, lonesome great hall, with its tall,
solemn-ticking clock, the wide, echoing staircase, up which
Miss Mehitable had crept, shivering and alone, so many sad
nights, now gave back the chirpings of Tina’s rattling gaiety
and the silvery echoes of her laugh, as, happy in her new lot,
she danced up the stairway , stopping to ask eager questions
on this and that, as anything struck her fancy. For Miss
Tina had one of those buoyant, believing natures, born to
ride always on the very top crest of every wave, — one fully
disposed to accept of good fortune in all its length and
breadth, and to make the most of it at once.

“This is our home,” she said, “isn’t it?”

“Yes, darling,” said Miss Mehitable, catching her in her

Digitized by Google

tina’s adoption.

247

arms fondly; “it is our home; we will have good times here
together.”

Tina threw her arms around Miss Mehitable’s neck and
kissed her. “I’m so glad! Harry said that God would find
us a home as soon as it was best, and now here it comes.”

Miss Mehitable set the child down by the side of a great
dark wooden bedstead , with tall , carved posts , draped with
curious curtains of India linen , where strange Oriental plants
and birds , and quaint pagodas and figures in turbans , were
all mingled together, like the phantasms in a dream. Then
going to a tall chest of drawers, resplendent with many brass
handles, which reached almost to the ceiling, she took a
bunch of keys from her pocket and unlocked a drawer. A
spasm as of pain passed over her face as she opened it, and
her hands trembled with some suppressed emotion as she took
up and laid down various articles , searching for something.
At last she found what she wanted, and shook it out. It
was a child’s night-gown, of just the size needed by Tina.
It was yellow with age , but made with dainty care. She sat
down by the child and began a movement towards undress-
ing her.

“ Shall I say my prayers to you,” said Tina, “before I go
to bed?”

“Certainly,” said Miss Mehitable; “by all means.”

“They are rather long,” said the child, apologetically, —
“that is 9 if I say all that Harry does. Harry said mamma
wanted us to say them all every night. It takes some
time.”

“Oh, by all means say all,” said Miss Mehitable.

Tina kneeled down by her and put her hands in hers, and
said the Lord’s Prayer, and the psalm, “The Lord is my
shepherd.” She had a natural turn for elocution, this little

248

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

one, and spoke her words with a grace and an apparent
understanding not ordinary in childhood.

“There’s a hymn, besides,” she said. “It belongs to the
prayer.”

“Well, let us have that,” said Miss Mehitable.

Tina repeated, —

“One there Is above all others

Well deserves the name of Friend:

His is love beyond a brother’s,

Costly, free , and knows no end.”

She had an earnest, lialf-heroic way of repeating, and as
she gazed into her listener’s eyes, she perceived, by subtle
instinct, that what she was saying affected her deeply. She
stopped, wondering.

“ Go on, my love,” said Miss Mehitable.

Tina continued, with enthusiasm, feeling that she was
making an impression on her auditor: —

“Which of all our friends, to save us,

Could or would have shed his blood?

But the Saviour died to have us
Reconciled in him to God.

“When He lived on earth abased,

Friend of Sinners was His name;

Now, above all glory raised,

He rejoiceth in the same.”

“0 my child, where did you learn that hymn?” said Miss
Mehitable, to whom the words were new. Simple and homely
as they were , they had struck on some inner nerve , which
was vibrating with intense feeling. Tears were standing in
her eyes.

“It was mamma’s hymn,” said Tina. “She always used
to say it. There is one more verse,” she added.

“Oh for grace our hearts to soften!

Teach us , Lord , at length to love ;

We, alas! forget too often
What a Friend we have above.”

Digitized by Google

tina’s adoption. 249

“Is that the secret of all earthly sorrow, then?” said Miss
Mehitable aloud, in involuntary soliloquy. The sound of
her own voice seemed to startle her. She sighed deeply,
and kissed the child. “Thank you, my darling. It does
me good to hear you,” she said.

The child had entered so earnestly, so passionately even,
into the spirit of the words she had been repeating, that she
seemed to Miss Mehitable to be transfigured into an angel
messenger, sent to inspire faith in God’s love in a darkened,
despairing soul. She put her ifito bed; but Tina immedi-
ately asserted her claim to an earthly nature by stretching
herself exultingly in the warm bed, with an exclamation of
vivid pleasure.

“IIow different this seems from my cold old bed at Miss
Asphyxia’s!” she said. “Oh, that horrid woman! how I
hale her!” she added, with a scowl and a frown, which made
the angelhood of the child more than questionable.

Miss Mehitable ’s vision melted. It was not a child of
heaven, but a little mortal sinner, that she was tucking up
for the night; and she felt constrained to essay her first effort
at moral training.

“ My dear,” she said ; “ did you not say, to-night, ‘Forgive
us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against
us’? Do you know what that means?”

“O yes,” said Tina, readily.

“Well, if your heavenly Father should forgive your sins
just as you forgive Miss Asphyxia, how would you like
that?”

There was a silence. The large bright eyes grew round
and reflective, as they peered out from between the sheets
and the pillow. At last she said in a modified voice: “ Weil, I
won’t hate her any more. But,” she added, with increased
vivacity, “I may think she’s hateful, mayn’t I?”

Digitized by Google

250

OLDTCHVN FOLKS.

Is there ever a hard question in morals that children do
not drive straight at, in their wide-eyed questioning?

Miss Mehitable felt inclined to laugh , but said gravely :
“I wouldn’t advise you to think evil about her. Perhaps she
is a poor woman that never had any one to love her, or any-
thing to love, and it has made her hard.”

Tina looked at Miss Mehitable earnestly, as if she were
pondering the remark. “She told me that she was put to
work younger than I was,” she said, “and kept at it all the
time.”

“And perhaps, if you had been kept at work all your life
in that hard way, you would have grown up to be just like
her.”

“Well, then, I’m sorry for her,” said Tina. “There’s
nobody loves her, that’s a fact. Nobody can love her, unless
it’s God. He loves every one, Harry says.”

“Well, good night, my darling,” said Miss Mehitable,
kissing her. “I shall come to bed pretty soon. I will leave
you a candle,” she added; “because this is a strange place.”
“How good you are! ” said Tina. “I used to be so afraid
in the dark, at Miss Asphyxia’s; and I was so wicked all
day, that I was afraid of God too , at night. I used some-
times to think I heard something chewing under my bed;
and I thought it was a wolf, and would eat me up.”

“Poor little darling!” said Miss Mehitable. “Would you
rather I sat by you till you went to sleep?”

“No, thank you; I don’t like to trouble you,” said the
child. “ If you leave a candle I shan’t be afraid. And , be-
sides, I’ve said my prayers now. I didn’t use to say them
one bit at Miss Asphyxia’s. She would tell me to say my
prayers , and then bang the door so hard , and I would feel
cross, and think I wouldn’t. But I am better now , because
you love me.”

Digitized by Google

MISS mehitable’s letter.

251

Miss Mehitable returned to the parlour , and sat down to
ponder over her fire ; and the result of her ponderings shall
be given in a letter which she immediately began writing at
the green-covered table.

CHAPTER XIX.

Miss Mehitable’s Letter, and the Reply, giving farther Hints of the Story.

“ My dear Brother, — Since I wrote you last, so strange a
change has taken place in my life that even row I walk
about as in a dream , and hardly know myself. The events
of a few hours have made everything in the world seem to me
as different from what it ever seemed before as death is from
life.

“ Not to keep you waiting , after so solemn a preface , I
will announce to you first, briefly, what it is, and then,
secondly, how it happened.

“Well, then, I have adopted a child, in my dry and wilted
old age. She is a beautiful and engaging little creature, full
of life and spirits, — full of warm affections, — thrown an abso-
lute waif and stray on the sands of life. Her mother was an
unknown Englishwoman, — probably some relict of the retired
English army. She died in great destitution, in the neigh-
bouring town of Needmore, leaving on the world two singular-
ly interesting children, a boy and a girl. They were, of
course, taken in charge by the parish, and fell to the lot of
old Crab Smith and his sister, Miss Asphyxia, just think of
it! I think I need say no more than this about their lot.

“ In a short time they ran away from cruel treatment; lived
in a desolate little housekeeping way in the old Dench house;
till finally Sam Lawson, lounging about in his general and
universal way, picked them up. He brought them, of course,

252

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

where every wandering, distressed thing comes, — to Deacon
Badger’s.

“ Now I suppose the deacon is comfortably off in the world,
as our New England farmers go, but his ability to maintain
general charges of housekeeping for all mankind may serious-
ly be doubted. Lois Badger, who does the work of Martha in
that establishment, came over to me, yesterday afternoon,
quite distressed in her mind about it. Lois is a worthy
creature , — rather sharp , to be sure , but , when her edge is
turned the right way, none the worse for that, — and really I
thought she had the right of it, to some extent.

“People in general are so resigned to have other folks
made burnt sacrifices, that it did not appear to me probable
that there was a creature in Oldtown who would do anything
more than rejoice that Deacon Badger felt able to take the
children. After I had made some rather bitter reflections on
the world, and its selfishness, in the style that we all practise,
the thought suddenly occurred to me, What do you more than
others? and that idea, together with the beauty and charms
of the poor little waif, decided me to take this bold step. I
shut my eyes, and took it, — not without quaking in my shoes
for fear of Polly; but I have earned my point in her very
face, without so much as saying by your leave.

“ The little one has just been taken up- stairs and tucked
up warmly in my own bed, with one of our poor little Emily’s
old nightgowns on. They fit her exactly, and I exult over
her as one that findeth great spoil.

“Polly has not yet declared herself, except by slamming
the door very hard when she first made the discovery of the
child’s presence in the house. I presume there is an equi-
noctial gale gathering, but I say nothing; for, after all, Polly
is a good creature , and will blow herself round into the right

Digitized by Google

MISS mehitable’s letter.

253

quarter, in time, as our north-east rain-storms generally do.
People always accommodate themselves to certainties.

“I cannot but regard the coming of this child to me at
this time as a messenger of mercy from God, to save me from
sinking into utter despair. I have been so lonely, so miser-
able, so utterly, inexpressibly wretched of late, that it has
seemed that, if something did not happen to help me, I must
lose my reason. Our family disposition to melancholy is a
hard enough thing to manage under the most prosperous
circumstances. I remember my father’s paroxysms of gloom:
they used to frighten me when I was a little girl, and laid
a heavy burden on the heart of our dear angel mother.
Whatever that curse is, we all inherit it. In the heart of
every one of us children there is that fearful black, drop , like
that which the Koran says the angel showed to Mohammed.
It is an inexplicable something which always predisposes us
to sadness, but in which any real, appreciable sorrow strikes
a terribly deep and long root. Shakspeare describes this
thing, as he does everything else:

1 In sooth , I know not why I am so sad :

It wearies me,— you say it wearies you ;

But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,

What stuff ’tia made of, whereof it is born,

I am to learn.’

You have struggled with it by the most rational means, — an
active out-of-door life, by sea voyages and severe manual
labour. A man can fight this dragon as a woman cannot.
We women are helpless, — tied to places, forms, and rules, —
chained to our stake. We must meet him as we can.

“Of late I have not been able to sleep, and, lying awake
all night long in darkness and misery, have asked , if this be
life, whether an immortal existence is not a curse to be feared,
rather than a blessing to be hoped , and if the wretchedness

254

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

we fear in the eternal world can be worse than what we
sometimes suffer now, — such sinking of heart, such helpless-
ness of fear, such a vain calling for help that never comes.
Well, I will not live it over again, for I dare say you know it
all too well. I think I finally wore myself out in trying to
cheer poor brother Theodore’s darksome way down to death.
Can you wonder that he would take opium? God alone can
judge people that suffer as he did, and, let people say what
they please, I must, I will, think that God has some pity for
the work of His hands.

“Now, brother, I must, I will, write to you about Emily;
though you have said you never wished to hear her name
again. What right had you, her brother, to give her up so,
and to let the whole burden of this dreadful mystery and
sorrow come down on me alone? You are not certain that
she has gone astray in the worst sense that a woman can.
We only know that she has broken away from us and gone,
— but where, how, and with whom, you cannot say, nor I.
And certainly there was great excuse for her. Consider how
the peculiar temperament and constitution of our family
wrought upon her. Consider the temptations of her wonder-
ful beauty, her highly nervous, wildly excitable organisation.
Her genius was extraordinary; her strength and vigour of
character quite as much so. Altogether, she was a perilously
constituted human being, — and what did we do with her? A
good, common girl might have been put with Uncle and Aunt
Farnsworth with great advantage. We put her there for the
simple reason that they were her aunt and uncle, and had
money enough to educate her. But in all other respects they
were about the most unsuited that could be conceived. I must
say that I think that glacial, gloomy, religious training in
Uncle Farnsworth’s family was, for her, peculiarly unfor-
tunate. She sat from Sunday to Sunday under Dr. Stern’s

Digitized by Google

miss mehitable’s letter.

255

preaching. With a high-keyed, acute mind, she could not
help listening and thinking; and such thinking is unfortunate,
to say the least.

“It always seemed to me that he was one of those who
experiment on the immortal soul as daring doctors experiment
on the body, — using the most violent and terrible remedies,
— remedies that must kill or cure. His theory was, that a
secret enemy to God was lying latent in every soul, which,
like some virulent poisons in the body, could only be expelled
by being brought to the surface; and he had sermon after
sermon, whose only object appeared to be to bring into vivid
consciousness what he calls the natural opposition of the
human heart.

“But, alas! in some cases the enmity thus aroused can
never be subdued; and Emily’s was a nature that would break
before it would bow. Nothing could have subdued her but
love , — and love she never heard. These appalling doctrines
were presented with such logical clearness, and apparently
so established from the Scriptures, that, unable to distinguish
between the word of God and the cruel deductions of human
logic, she trod both under foot in defiant despair. Then
came in the French literature, which is so fascinating, and
which just now is having so wide an influence on the thinking
of our country. Rousseau and Voltaire charmed her, and
took her into a new world. She has probably gone to France
for liberty, with no protection but her own virgin nature.
Are we at once to infer the worst, when we know so little?
I , for one , shall love her and trust in her to the end ; and if
ever she should fall , and do things that I and all the world
must condemn, I shall still say, that it will be less her fault
than that of others; that she will be one of those who fall by
their higher, rather than their lower nature.

“I have a prophetic instinct in my heart that some day,

Digitized by Google

256

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

\

poor, forlorn, and forsaken, slie will look back with regret to
the old house where she was born : and then she shall be wel-
come here. This is why I keep this solitary old place, full
of bitter and ghostly memories ; because, as long as I keep it,
there is one refuge that Emily may call her own, and one
heart that will be true to her, and love her and believe in her
to the end.

“ 1 think God has been merciful to me in sending me this
child, to be to me as a daughter. Already her coming has
been made a means of working in me that great moral change
for which all my life I have been blindly seeking. I have
sought that conversion which our father taught us to expect
as alchemists seek the philosopher’s stone.

“ What have I not read and suffered at the hands of the
theologians? How many lonely hours, day after day, have I
bent the knee in fruitless prayer that God would grant me
this great, unknown grace! for without it how dreary is life!

“We are in ourselves so utterly helpless, — life is so hard,
so inexplicable, that we stand in perishing need of some help-
ing hand, some sensible, appreciable connexion with God.
And yet for years every cry of misery, every breath of an-
guish, has been choked by the logical proofs of theology; —
that God is my enemy, or that I am His; that eveiy effort I
make toward Him but aggravates my offence ; and that this
unknown gift, which no child of Adam ever did compass of
himself, is so completely in my own power, that I am every
minute of ray life to blame for not possessing it.

“How many hours have I gone round and round this
dreary track, — chilled, weary, shivering, seeing no light, and
hearing no voice! But within this last hour it seems as if a
divine ray had shone upon me , and the great gift had been
given me by the hand of a little child. It came in the simplest
and most unexpected manner, while listening to a very homely

Digitized by Google

MISS MEHIT ABLE’S LETTEB.

257

hymn, repeated by this dear little one. The words them-
selves were not much in the way of poetry; it was merely the
simplest statement of the truth that in Jesus Christ, ever liv-
ing, ever present, every human soul has a personal friend,
divine and almighty.

“This thought came over me with such power, that it
seemed as if all my doubts, all my intricate, contradictory
theologies, all those personal and family sorrows which had
made a burden on my soul greater than poor Christian ever
staggered under, had gone where his did, when, at the sight
of the Cross, it loosed from his back, and rolled down into
the sepulchre, to be seen no more. Can it be, I asked my-
self, that this mighty love , that I feel so powerfully and so
sweetly, has been near me all these dark, melancholy years?
Has the sun been shining behind all these heavy clouds,
under whose shadows I have spent my life?

“When I laid my little Tina down to sleep to-night, I
came down here to think over this strange, new thought, —
that I, even I, in my joyless old age, my poverty, my per-
plexities, my loneliness, am no longer alone! I am beloved.
There is One who does love me, — the One Friend, whose
love, like the sunshine, can be the portion of each individual
of the human race, without exhaustion. This is the great
mysteiy of faith, which I am determined from this hour to
keep whole and undefiled.

“My dear brother, I have never before addressed to you
a word on this subject. It has been one in which I saw only
perplexity. I have, it is true , been grieved and disappointed
that you did not see your way clear to embrace the sacred
ministry, which has for so many generations been the ap-
pointed work of our family. I confess for many years I did
hope to see you succeed , not only to the library , but to the
work , of our honoured, venerated father and grandfather. It
Oldtomi Folks . /. 17

258

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

was my hope that, in this position, I should find in you a
spiritual guide to resolve my doubts and lead me aright. But
I have gathered from you at times, by chance words dropped,
that you could not exactly accept the faith of our fathers.
Perhaps difficulties like my own have withheld you. I know
you too well to believe that the French scepticism that has
blown over here with the breath of our political revolution
can have had the least influence over you. Whatever your
views of doctrines may be, you are not a doubter. You are
not — as poor Emily defiantly called herself— a deist, an alien
from all that our fathers came to this wilderness to maintain.
Yet when I see you burying your talents in a lonely mountain
village, satisfied with the work of a poor schoolmaster, in-
stead of standing forth to lead our New England in the pulpit,
I ask myself, Why is this?

“ Speak to me, brother! tell me your innermost thoughts,
as I have told you mine. Is not life short and sad and bitter
enough, that those who could help each other should neglect
the few tilings they can do to make it tolerable? Why do we
travel side by side, lonely and silent, — each, perhaps, hiding
in that silence the bread of life that the other needs? Write
to me as I have written to you , and let me know that I have
a brother in soul, as I have in flesh. — Your affectionate sister,

“M. R ”

“My dear Sister, — I have read your letter. Answer it
justly and truly, how can I? How little we know of each
other in outside intimacy ! but when we put our key into the
door of the secret chamber, who does not tremble and draw
back ?— that is the true haunted chamber!

“ First , about Emily, I will own I am wrong. It is from
no want of love , though , but from too much. 1 was and am
too sore and bitter on that subject to trust myself. I have a

Digitized by Google

miss meh it able’s letter.

259

heart full of curses, but don’t know exactly where to fling
them; and, for aught I see, we are utterly helpless. Every
clue fails; and what is the use of torturing ourselves? It is a
mans nature to act, to do, and where nothing can be done,
to forget. It is a woman’s nature to hold on to what can only
torture , and live all her despairs over. Women’s tears are
their meat; men find the diet too salt, and won’t take it.

“Tell me anything I can do, and I’ll do it; but talk I can-
not, — every word burns me. I admit every word you say of
Emily. We were mistaken in letting her go to the Farns-
worths, and be baited and tortured with ultra-Calvinism; but
we were blind^as we mortals always are, — fated never to see
what we should have done, till seeing is too late.

“I am glad you have taken that child, — first, because it’s
a good deed in itself, and, secondly, because it’s good for you.
That it should have shed light on your relations to God is
strictly philosophical. You have been trying to find your
way to Him by definitions and by logic; one might as well
make love to a lady by the first book of Euclid. ‘He that
loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love
God whom he hath not seen?’ That throb of protecting, all-
embracing love which thrilled through your heart for this
child taught you more of God than father’s whole library.
‘He that loveth not knoweth not God.’ The old Bible is
philosophical, and eminent for its common sense. Of course
this child will make a fool of you. Never mind; the follies
of love are remedial.

“As to a system of education, it will be an amusement for
you to get that up. Every human being likes to undertake
to dictate for some other one. Go at it with good cheer. But
whatever you do, don’t teach her French. Give her a good
Saxon-English education; and, if she needs a pasture-land of
foreign languages, let her learn Latin, and, more than that,

17 *

260

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

Greek. Greek is the morning-land of languages, and has the
freshness of early dew in it which will never exhale.

“The French helped us in our late war; for that 1 thank
them; but from French philosophy and French democracy,
may the good Lord deliver us. They slew their Puritans in
the massacre of St. Bartholmew, and the nation ever since has
been without a moral sense. French literature is like an eagle
with one broken wing. What the Puritans did for us English
people, in bringing in civil liberty, they lacked. Our revolu-
tions have been gradual. I predict that theirs will come by
and by with an explosion.

“Meanwhile, our young men who follow after French
literature become rakes and profligates. Their first step in
liberty is to repeal the ten commandments, especially the
seventh. Therefore I consider a young woman in our day
misses nothing who does not read French. Decorous French
' literature is stupid, and bright French literature is too wicked
for anything. So let French alone.

“ She threatens to be pretty, does she? So much the worse
for you and her. If she makes you too much trouble by and
by, send her up to my academy, and I will drill her, and make
a Spartan of her.

“As to what you say about religion, and the ministry, and
the schoolmaster, what can I say on this sheet of paper?
Briefly then. No, I am not in any ser^e an unbeliever in the
old Bible; I would as soon disbelieve my own mother. And
I am in my nature a thorough Puritan. I am a Puritan as
thoroughly as a hound is a hound, and a pointer a pointer,
whose pedigree of unmixed blood can be traced for genera-
tions back. I feel within me the preaching instinct, just as
the hound snuffs, and the pointer points; but as to the pulpit
in these days, well, thereby hangs a tale.

“What should I preach, supposing I were a minister, as

Digitized by Google

miss meiiitable’s letter.

261

my father, and grandfather, and great-grandfather were be-
fore me? What they preached was true to them, was fitted
for their times, was loyally and sincerely said, and of course
did a world of good. But when I look over their sermons, I
put an interrogation point to almost everything they say; and
what was true to them is not true to me; and if I should speak
out as honestly as they did what is true to me, the world would
not understand or receive it, and I think it would do more
harm than good. I believe I am thinking ahead of the present
generation, and if I should undertake to push my thoughts, I
should only bother people, ju3t as one of my bright boys in
the latter part of the algebra sometimes worries a new be-
ginner with his advanced explanations.

“ Then again, our late Revolution has wrought a change in
the ministry that will soon become more and more apparent.
The time when ministers were noblemen by divine right,
and reigned over their parishes by the cocked-hat and gold-
headed cane, is passing away. Dr. Lothrop, and Dr. Stern,
and a few others, keep up the prestige, but that sort of thing
is going by; and in the next generation the minister will be
nothing but a citizen; his words will come without prestige,
and be examined and sifted just like the words of any other
citizen.

“There is a race of ministers rising up who are fully
adequate to meet this exigency ; and these men are going to
throw Calvinism down into the arena, and discuss every inch
of it, hand to hand and knee to knee, with the common
people ; and we shall see what will come of this.

u I, for my part, am not prepared to be a minister on these
terms. Still, as I said, I have the born instinct of preaching*
I am dictatorial by nature , and one of those who need con-
stantly to see themselves reflected in other people’s eyes:
and so I have got an academy here, up in the mountains,

262

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

* t

where I have a set of as clear, bright-eyed, bright-minded
boys and girls as you would wish to see, and am in my way
a pope. Well, I enjoy being a pope. It is one of my weak-
nesses.

“As to society, we have the doctor, — a quiet little wrinkled
old man, a profound disbeliever in medicines, who gives
cream-of-tartar for ordinary cases, and camomile tea when
the symptoms become desperate, and reads Greek for his own
private amusement. Of course he doesn’t get veiy rich , but
here in the mountains one can afford to be poor. One of our
sunsets is worth half a Boston doctor’s income.

“ Then there’s the lawyer and squire, who draws the deeds,
and makes the wills, and settles the quarrels; and the minister,
who belongs to the new dispensation. He and 1 are sworn
Mends; he is my Fidus Achates. His garden joins mine, and
when I am hoeing my corn he is hoeing his, and thence comes
talk. As it gets more eager I jump the fence and hoe in his
garden, or he does the same to mine. We have a strife on
the matter of garden craft, who shall with most skill outwit
our Mother Nature, and get cantelopes and melons under cir-
cumstances in which she never intended them to grow. This
year I beat the parson, but I can see that he is secretly re-
solved to revenge himself on me when the sweet corn comes
in. One evening every week we devote to reading the news-
paper and settling the affairs of the country. We are both
staunch Federalists, and make the walls ring with our de-
nunciations of Jacobinism and Democracy. Once a month
we have the Columbian Magazine and the foreign news from
Europe, and then we have a great deal on our hands; we go
over affairs, every country systematically, and settle them for
the month. In general we are pretty well agreed, but now
and then our lines of policy differ, and then we fight it out
with good courage, not sparing the adjectives. The parson

miss mehitable’s letter.

263

has a sly humour of his own, and our noisiest discussions
generally end in a hearty laugh.

“So much for the man and friend, — now for the clergy-
man. He is neither the sentimental, good parson of Gold-
smith, nor the plaintive, ascetic parish priest of Romanism,
nor the cocked-hat of the theocracy, but a lively, acute, full-
blooded man , who does his duty on equal terms among men.
He is as single-hearted as an unblemished crystal, and in
some matters sacredly simple; but yet not without a thrifty
practical shrewdness, both in things temporal and things
spiritual. He has an income of about two hundred and fifty
dollars, with his wood. The farmers about here consider
him as rolling in wealth, and I must say that, though the
parsonage is absolutely bare of luxuries, one is not there
often unpleasantly reminded that the parson is a poor man.
He haa that golden faculty of enjoying the work he does so
utterly, and believing in it so entirely, that he can quite afford
to be poor. He whose daily work is in itself a pleasure ought
not to ask for riches : so I tell myself about my school-keep-
ing, and him about his parish. He takes up the conversion
of sinners as an immediate practical business, to be done and
done now; he preaches in all the little hills and dales and
hollows and brown school-houses for miles around, and chases
his sinners up and down so zealously, that they have , on the
whole , a lively time of it. He attacks drinking and all our
small forms of country immorality with a vigour sufficient to
demolish sins of double their size , and gives nobody even a
chance to sleep in meeting. The good farmers around here,
some of whom would like to serve Mammon comfortably, are
rather in a quandary what to do. They never would bear the
constant hounding which he gives them , and the cannonades
he fires at their pet sins , and the way he chases them from
pillar to post , and the merciless manner in which he breaks

264

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

in upon their comfortable old habit of sleeping in meeting,
were it not that they feel that they are paying him an enorm-
ous salary, and ought to get their money’s worth out of him,
which they are certain they are doing most fully. Your
Yankee has such a sense of values, that, if he pays a man to
thrash him, he wants to be thrashed thoroughly.

“My good friend preaches what they call New Divinity,
by which I understand the Calvinism which our fathers left
us, in the commencing process of disintegration. He is
thoroughly and enthusiastically in earnest about it, and be-
lieves that the system , as far as Edwards and Hopkins have
got it, is almost absolute truth; but, for all that, is cheerfully
busy in making some little emendations and corrections, upon
which he values himself, and which he thinks of the greatest
consequence. What is to the credit of his heart is, that these
emendations are generally in favour of some original-minded
sheep who can’t be got into the sheepfold without some altera-
tion in the paling. In these cases I have generally noticed
that he will loosen a rail or tear off a picket, and let the she§p
in, it being his impression, after all, that the sheep are worth
more than the sheepfold.

“In his zeal to catch certain shy sinners, he has more than
once preached sermons which his brethren about here find
fault with, as wandering from old standards; and it costs
abundance of bustle and ingenuity to arrange his system so
as to provide for exceptional cases, and yet to leave it exactly
what it was before the alterations were made.

“It is, I believe, an admitted thing among theologians,
that, while theology must go on improving from age to age,
it must also remain exactly what it was a hundred years
ago.

“ The parson is my intimate friend , and it is easy for me
to see that he has designs for the good of my soul , for which

Digitized by Google

miss mehitablk’s letter.

265

I sincerely love him. I can see that he is lying in wait for
me patiently, as sometimes we do for trout, when we go out
fishing together. He reconnoitres me, approaches me care-
fully, makes nice little logical traps to catch me in, and baits
them with very innocent-looking questions, which I, being an
old theological rat, skilfully avoid answering.

u My friend’s forte is logic. Between you and me, if there
is a golden calf worshipped in our sanctified New England,
its name is Logic; and my good friend the parson burns in-
cense before it with a most sacred innocence of intention.
He believes that sinners can be converted by logic, and that,
if he could once get me into one of these neat little traps
aforesaid, the salvation of my soul would be assured. He has
caught numbers of the shrewdest infidel foxes among the
farmers around, and I must say that there is no trap for the
Yankee like the logic trap.

“I must tell you a story about this which amused me
greatly. You know everybody’s religious opinions are a
matter of discussion in our neighbourhood, and Ezekiel
Scranton, a rich farmer who lives up on the hill, enjoys the
celebrity of being an atheist, and rather values himself on
the distinction. It takes a man of courage, you know, to
live without a God ; and Ezekiel gives himself out as a plucky
dog, and able to hold the parson at bay. The parson, how-
ever, had privately prepared a string of questions which he
was . quite sure would drive Ezekiel into strait quarters. So
he meets him the other day in the store.

“ ‘How’s this, Mr. Scranton? they tell me that you’re an
atheist!’

“‘Well, I guess I be, Parson,’ says Ezekiel, com-
fortably.

“‘Well, Ezekiel, let’s talk about this. You believe in
your own existence, don’t you?’

266

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

“ 4 No, I don’t.’

“ ‘What! not believe in your own existence?’

“ ‘No, I don’t.’ Then, after a moment, ‘Tell you what,
Parson, ain’t a-going to be twitched up by none o’ your
syllogisms.’

“Ezekiel was quite in the right of it; for I must do my
friend the parson the justice to say, that, if you answer
one of his simple-looking questions, you are gone. You
must say B after saying A, and the whole alphabet after
that.

“ For my part, I do not greatly misbelieve the main points
of Calvinism. They strike me , as most hard and disagree-
able things do , as quite likely to be true , and very much in
accordance with a sensible man’s observation of facts as they
stand in life and nature. My doubts come up, like bats, from
a dark and dreadful cavern that underlies all religion, natural
or revealed. They are of a class abhorrent to myself, smother-
ing to my peace, imbittering to my life.

“ What must he be who is tempted to deny the very right
of his Creator to the allegiance of His creatures? — who is
tempted to feel that his own conscious existence is an in-
flicted curse, and that the whole race of men have been a set
of neglected, suffering children, bred like fish-spawn on a
thousand shores, by a Being who has never interested him-
self to care for their welfare , to prevent their degradation,
to interfere with their cruelties to each other, as they
have writhed and wrangled into life , through life , and out
of life again? Does this look like being a Father in any
sense in which we poor mortals think of fatherhood? After
seeing nature, can we reason against any of the harshest
conclusions of Calvinism from the character of its Author.

“ Do we not consider a man unworthy the name of a good
father who, from mere blind reproductive instinct, gives birth

Digitized by Google

miss mehitable’s letter.

267

to children for whose improvement, virtue , and happiness he
makes no provision? and yet does not this seem to be the
way more than half of the human race actually comes into
existence?

“ Then the laws of nature are an inextricable labyrinth, —
puzzling, crossing, contradictory; and ages of wearisome
study have as yet hardly made a portion of them clear
enough for human comfort; and doctors and ministers go on
torturing the body and the soul , with the most devout good
intentions. And so forth , for there is no end to this sort of
talk.

“Now my friend the parson is the outgrowth of the New
England theocracy, about the simplest, purest, and least ob-
jectionable state of society that the world ever saw. He
has a good digestion, a healthy mind in a healthy body; he
lives in a village where there is no pauperism and hardly
any crime, — where all the embarrassing, dreadful social
problems and mysteries of life scarcely exist. But I, who
have been tumbled up and down upon all the shores of
earth, lived in India, China, and Polynesia, and seen the
human race as they breed Like vermin, in their filth and
their contented degradation, — how can I think of applying
the measurements of any theological system to a reality like
this?

u Now the parts of their system on which my dear friend
the parson , and those of his school , specially value them-
selves, are their explanations of the reasons why evil was
permitted , and their vindications of the Divine character in
view of it. They are specially earnest and alert in giving
out their views here, and the parson has read to me more
than one sermon, hoping to medicate what he supposes to be
my secret wound. To me their various theories are, as my
friend the doctor once said to me, 1 putting their bitter pill in

Digitized by Google

268

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

a chestnut-burr; the pill is bad, — there is no help for that, —
but the chestnut-burr is impossible.’

“It is incredible, the ease and cheerfulness with which a
man in his study, who never had so much experience of suf-
fering as even a toothache would give him, can arrange a
system in which the everlasting torture of millions is casually
admitted as an item. But I, to whom seriously speaking,
existence has been for much of my life nothing but suffering,
and who always looked on my existence as a misfortune, must
necessarily feel reasonings of this kind in a different way.
This soul-ache, this throb of pain, that seems as if it were an
actual anguish of the immaterial part itself, is a dreadful
teacher, and gives a fearful sense of what the chances of an
immortal existence might be , and what the responsibilities
of originating such existence.

“I am not one of the shallow sort, who think that every-
thing for everybody must or ought to end with perfect bliss
at death. On the contrary, I do not see how anything but
misery in eternal ages is to come from the outpouring into
their abyss of wrangling undisciplined souls, who were a
torment to themselves and others here , and who would make
this world unbearable, were they not all swept off in their
turn by the cobweb brush of Death.

“ So you see it’s all a hopeless muddle to me. Do I then
believe nothing? Yes, I believe in Jesus Christ with all my
heart, all my might. He stands before me the one hopeful
phenomenon of history. I adore him as Divine, or all of the
Divine that I can comprehend ; and when He bids me say to
God, ‘Our Father which art in heaven,’ I smother all my
doubts and say it. Those words are the rope thrown out to
me, choking in the waters,— the voice from the awful silence.
‘ God so loved the world that He gave His own Son.’ I try

Digitized by Google

miss mehitable’s letter.

269

to believe that He loves this world, but I have got only so far
as ‘ Help Thou mine unbelief.’

“Now, as to talking out all this to the parson, what good
would it do? He is preaching well and working bravely.
His preaching suits the state of advancement to which New
England has come, and the process which he and ministers
of his sort institute, of having every point in theology fully
discussed by the common people, is not only a capital drill
for their minds, but it will have its effect in the end on their
theologies, and out of them all the truth of the future will
arise.

“So you see my position, and why I am niched here for
life as ’a schoolmaster. Come up and see me sometime. I
have a housekeeper who is as ugly as Hecate, but who reads
Greek. She makes the best bread and cake in town, keeps
my stockings mended and my shirt-ruffles plaited and my
house like wax , and hears a class in Virgil ever}' day , after
she has ‘done her dinner-dishes.’ I shall not fall in love
with her, though. Come sometime to see me, and bring your
new acquisition. — Your brother,

“Jonathan Kossitkr.”

I have given these two letters as the best means of showing
to the reader the character of the family with whom my
destiny and that of Tina became in future life curiously
intertwisted.

Among the peculiarly English ideas which the Colonists
brought to Massachusetts, which all the wear and tear of
democracy have not been able to obliterate, was that of
family. Family feeling, family pride, family hope and fear
and desire, were, in my early day, strongly-marked traits.
Genealogy was a thing at the tip of every person’s tongue,
and in every person’s mind ; and it is among my most vivid

Digitized by Google

270

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

remembrances , with what a solemn air of intense interest my
mother, grandmother, Aunt Lois, and Aunt Keziah would
enter into minute and discriminating particulars with regard
to the stock, intermarriages, and family settlements of the
different persons whose history was under their consideration.
“Of a very respectable family,” was a sentence so often re-
peated at the old fireside that its influence went in part to
make up my character. In our present days, when every
man is emphatically the son of his own deeds, and nobody
cares who his mother or grandmother or great-aunt was,
there can scarcely be an understanding of this intense feeling
of race and genealogy which pervaded simple colonial Mas-
sachusetts.

As I have often before intimated , the aristocracy of Mas-
sachusetts consisted of two classes, the magistracy and the
ministry; and these two, in this theocratic State, played into
each other’s hands continually. Next to the magistrate and
the minister, in the esteem of that community, came tho
schoolmaster; for education might be said to be the ruling
passion of the State.

The history of old New England families is marked by
strong lights and deep shadows of personal peculiarity. We
appeal to almost every old settler in New England towns, if
he cannot remember stately old houses, inhabited by old
families , whose histories might be brought to mind by that
of Miss Mehitable and her brother. There was in them a
sort of intellectual vigour, a ceaseless activity of thought, a
passion for reading and study, and a quiet brooding on the
very deepest problems of mental and moral philosophy. The
characteristic of such families is the greatly disproportioned
force of the internal, intellectual, and spiritual life to the
external one. Hence come often morbid and diseased forms
of manifestation. The threads which connect such persons

miss mehitable’s letter.

271

with the real life of the outer world are so fine and so weak,
that they are constantly breaking and giving way here and
there, so that, in such races, oddities and eccentricities are
come to be accepted only as badges of family character. Yet
from stock of this character have come some of the most
brilliant and effective minds in New England} and from them
also have come hermits and recluses, — peculiar and excep-
tional people, — people delightful to the student of human
nature, but excessively puzzling to the every-day judgment of
mere eonveutioual society.

The Rossiter family had been one of these. It traced its
origin to the colony which came out with Governor Winthrop.
The eldest Rossiter had been one of the ejected ministers,
and came from a good substantial family of the English
gentry. For several successive generations there had never
been wanting a sou in thg Rossiter family to succeed to the
pulpit of his father. The Rossiters had been leaned on by
the magistrates and consulted by the governors, and their
word had been law down to the time of Miss Mehitable’s
father.

The tendency of the stately old families of New England
to constitutional melancholy has been well set forth by Dr.
Cotton Mather, that delightful old New England grandmother,
whose nursery tales of its infancy and cliildhood may well be
pondered by those who would fully understand its farreaching
maturity. As I have before remarked , 1 have high ideas of
the wisdom of grandmothers, and therefore do our beloved
gossip, Dr. Cotton Mather, the greatest possible compliment
in granting him the title.

The ministers of the early colonial days of New England,
though well-read , scholarly men , were more statesmen than
theologians. Their minds ran upon the actual arrangements
of society, which were in a great degree left in their hands,

272

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

rather than on doctrinal and metaphysical subtilties. They
took their confession of faith just as the great body of Pro-
testant reformers left it, and acted upon it as a practical
foundation , without much further discussion , until the time
of President Edwards. He was the first man who begun the
disintegrating process of applying rationalistic methods to
the accepted doctrines of religion, and he rationalised far
more boldly and widely than any publishers of his biography
have ever dared to let the world know. He sawed the great
dam and let out the whole waters of discussion over all New
England, and that free discussion led to all the shades of
opinion of our modern days. Little as he thought it, yet
Waldo Emerson and Theodore Parker were the last results
of the current set in motion by Jonathan Edwards.

Miss Mehitable Rossiter’s father , during the latter part of
his life, had dipped into this belt of New Divinity, and been
excessively and immoderately interested in certain specula-
tions concerning them. All the last part of his life had been
consumed in writing a treatise in opposition to Dr. Stern,
another rigorous old cocked-hat of his neighbourhood , who
maintained that the Deity had created sin on purpose, because
it was a necessary means of the greatest good. Dr. Rossiter
thought that evil had only been permitted , because it could
be overruled for the greatest good; and each of them fought
their battle as if the fate of the universe was to be decided
by its results.

Considered as a man , in his terrestrial and mundane rela-
tions , Dr. Rossiter had that wholesome and homely interest
in the things of this mortal life which was characteristic of
the New England religious development. While the Puritans
were intensely interested in the matters of the soul, they ap-
peared to have a realising sense of the fact that a soul with-
out a body, in a material world , is at a great disadvantage in

i

Digitized by Google

MISS MEHITABLES LETTER.

273

getting on. So they exhibited a sensible and commendable
sense of the worth of property. They were especially ad-
dicted to lawful matrimony, and given to having large
families of children; and, if one wife died, they straightway
made up the loss by another, — a compliment to the virtues
of the female sex which womankind appear always gratefully
to appreciate.

Parson Itossiter had been three times married; first, to a
strong-grained, homely, highly intellectual woman of one of
the first Boston families, of whom Miss Mehitable Rossiter
was the only daughter. The Doctor was said to be one of
the handsomest men of his times. Nature, with her usual
perversity in these matters, made Miss Mehitable an exact
reproduction of all the homely traits of her mother, with the
addition of the one or two physical defects of her handsome
father. No woman with a heart in her bosom ever feels
marked personal uncomeliness otherwise than as a great mis-
fortune. Miss Meliitable bore it with a quaint and silent
pride. Her brother Jonathan, next to herself in age, the son
of a second and more comely wife, was far more gifted in
personal points, though not equal to his father. Finally,
late in life , after a somewhat prolonged widowhood , Parson
Rossiter committed the folly of many men on the downhill
side of life, that of marrying a woman considerably younger
than himself. She was a pretty, nervous, excitable, sensitive
creature, whom her homely elder daughter, Miss Mehitable,
no less than her husband , petted and caressed on account of
her beauty, as if she had been a child. She gave birth to
two more children, a son named Theodore, and a daughter
named Emily, and then died.

All the children had inherited from their father the pecu-
liar constitutional tendency to depression of spirits of which
we have spoken. In these last two , great beauty and brilliant
Oldtoicn Folks . /. 18

274

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

powers of mind were united with such a singular sensitive-
ness and waywardness of nature as made the prospect for
happiness in such a life as this , and under the strict require-
ments of New England society, very problematical.

Theodore ran through a brilliant course in college, not-
withstanding constant difficulties with the college authorities,
but either could not or would not apply himself to any of the
accepted modes of getting bread and butter which a young
man must adopt who means to live and get on with other men.
He was full of disgusts, and repulsions, and dislikes; every-
thing in life wounded and made him sore; he could or would
do nothing reasonably or rationally with human beings , and,
to deaden the sense of pain in existence , took to the use of
opiates, which left him a miserable wreck on his sister’s
hands , the father being dead.

Thus far the reader has the history of this family, and in-
timations of the younger and more beautiful one whose after
fate was yet to be connected with ours.

Miss Mehitable Rossiter has always been to me a curious
study. Singularly plain as she was in person, old, withered,
and poor, she yet commanded a respect, and even reverence,
through the whole of a wide circle of acquaintance ; for she
was well known to some of the most considerable families in
Boston, with whom, by her mother’s side, she was connected.
The interest in her was somewhat like that in old lace, old
china, and old cashmere shawls, which, though often exces-
sively uncomely, and looking in the eyes of uninterested
people like mere rubbish, are held by connoisseurs to be
beyond all price.

• Miss Mehitable herself had great pride of character, in
the sense in which pride is an innocent weakness, if not a
species of virtue. She had an innate sense that she belonged
to a good family, —a perfectly quiet conviction that she was

miss mehitable’s letter.

275

a Bradford by her mothers side, and a Rossiter by her father’s
side, come what might in this world. She was too well versed
in the duties of good blood not to be always polite and con-
siderate to the last degree to all well-meaning common
people, for she felt the noblesse oblige as much as if she had
been a duchess. And , for that matter, in the circles of Old-
town everything that Miss Mehitable did and said had a
certain weight, quite apart from that of her really fine mental
powers. It was the weight of past generations , of the whole
Colony of Massachusetts ; all the sermons of five generations
of ministers were in it, which to a God-fearing community is
a great deal.

But in her quaint, uncomely body was lodged, not only a
most active and even masculine mind , but a heart capable of
those passionate extremes of devotion which belong to the
purely feminine side of woman. She was capable of a ro-
mantic excess of affection, of an extravagance of hero-
worship, which, had she been personally beautiful, might
perhaps have made her the heroine of some poem of the
heart. It was among the quietly accepted sorrows of her
life, that for her no such romance was possible.

Men always admired her as they admired other men, and
talked to her as they talked with each other. Many, during
the course of her life, had formed friendships with her, which
were mere relations of comradeship, but which never touched
the inner sphere of the heart. That heart, so warm, so
tender, and so true, she kept, with a sort of conscious shame,
hidden far behind the entrenchments of her intellect. With
an instinctive fear of ridicule, she scarcely ever spoke a
tender word, and generally veiled a soft emotion under some
quaint phrase of drollery. She seemed forever to feel the
strange contrast between the burning, romantic heart and the
dry and withered exterior. *

18 *

276

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

Like many other women who have borne the curse of
marked plainness , Miss Mehitable had an extravagant valua-
tion for personal beauty. Her younger sister, whose love-
liness was uncommon, was a sort of petted idol to her, during
all her childish years. At the time of her father’s death, she
would gladly have retained her with her, but, like many other
women who are strong on the intellectual side of their nature,
Miss Mehitable had a sort of weakness and helplessness in
relation to mere material matters, which rendered her, in the
eyes of the family, unfit to be trusted with the bringing up of
a bright and wilful child. In fact, as regarded all the details
of daily life , Miss Mehitable was the servant of Polly, who
had united the offices of servant-of-all-work , house-keeper,
nurse , and general factotum in old Parson Rossiter’s family,
and between whom and the little wilful Emily grievous quar-
rels had often arisen. For all these reasons, and because
Mrs. Farnsworth of the neighbouring town of Adams was the
only sister of the child’s mother, was herself childless, and in
prosperous worldly circumstances, it would have been deemed
< a flying in the face of Providence to refuse her, when she
declared her intention of adopting her sister’s child as her
own.

Of what came of this adoption I shall have occasion to
speak hereafter.

CHAPTER XX.

Miss Asphyxia goes in Pursuit, and my Grandmother gives her Views on

Education.

When Miss Asphyxia Smith found that both children re-
ally had disappeared from Needmore so completely that no
trace of them remained, to do her justice, she felt some soli-
citude to know what had become of them. There had not

Digitized by Google

MISS ASPHYXIA GOES IN PURSUIT.

277

been wanting instances in those early days, when so large a
part of Massachusetts was unbroken forest, of children who
had wandered away into the woods and starved to death; and
Miss Asphyxia was by no means an ill-wisher to any child,
nor so utterly without bowels as to contemplate such a pos-
sibility without some anxiety.

Not that she in the least doubted the wisdom and perfect
propriety of her own mode of administration , which she had
full faith would in the end have made a “smart girl” of her
little charge. “That ’ere little limb didn’t know what was
good for herself,” she said to Sol, over their evening meal of
cold potatoes and boiled beef.

Sol looked round-eyed and stupid, and squared his
shoulders , as he always did when this topic was introduced.
He suggested, “You don’t s’pose they could ’a’ wandered off
to the maountains where Bijah Peters’ boy got lost?”

There was a sly satisfaction in observing the anxious
brooding expression which settled down over Miss Asphyxia’s
dusky features at the suggestion.

“When they found that ’ere boy,” continued Sol, “he was
all worn to skin and bone ; he’d kep’ himself a week on ber-
ries and ches’nuts and sich, but a boy can’t be kep’ on what
a squirrel can.”

“Well,” said Miss Asphyxia, “I know one thing; it ain’t
my fault if they do starve to death. Silly critters, they was;
well provided for, good home, good clothes, plenty and plenty
to eat. I’m sure you can bear witness ef I ever stinted that
’ere child in her victuals.”

“ I’ll bear you out on that ’ere,” said Sol.

“ And well you may ; I’d scorn not to give any one in my
house a good bellyful,” quoth Miss Asphyxia.

“That’s true enough,” said Sol; “everybody ’ll know
that.”

I

278 OLDTOWN FOLKS.

“Well, it’s jest total depravity,” said Miss Asphyxia.
“How can any one help bein’ convinced o’ that, that has
anything to do with young uns?”

But the subject preyed upon the severe virgin’s mind; and
she so often mentioned it, with that roughening of her scrubby
eyebrows which betokened care, that Sol’s unctuous good na-
ture was somewhat moved , and he dropped at last a hint of
having fallen on a trace of the children. He might as well
have put the tips of his fingers into a rolling-mill. Miss
Asphyxia was so wide-awake and resolute about anything
that she wanted to know, that Sol at last was obliged to
finish with informing her that he had heard of the children
as having been taken in at Deacon Badger’s, over in Old-
town. Sol internally chuckled, as he gave the information,
when he saw how immediately Miss Asphyxia bristled with
wrath. Even the best of human beings have felt that tran-
sient flash when anxiety for the fate of a child supposed to
be in fatal danger gives place to unrestrained vexation at the
little culprit who has given such a fright.

“Well, I shall jest tackle up and go over and bring them
children home agin, at least the girl. Brother, he says he
don’t want the boy; he wa’n’t nothin’ but a plague; but I’m
one o’ them persons that when I undertake a thing I mean to
go through with it. Now I undertook to raise that ’ere girl,
and I mean to. She needn’t think she’s goin’ to come round
me with any o’ her shines, going over to Deacon Badger’s
with lying stories about me. Mis’ Deacon Badger needn’t
think she’s goin’ to hold up her head over me, if she is a
deacon’s wife and I ain't a perfessor of religion. I guess I
could be a perfessor if I chose to do as some folks do. That’s
what I told Mis’ Deacon Badger once when she asked me
why I didn’t jine the church. 1 Mis’ Badger ,’ says I, ‘per-

Digitized by Google

MISS ASPHYXIA GOES IN PURSUIT.

279

fessin’ ain’t possession, and I’d rather stand outside the
church than go on as some people do inside on’t.’ ”

Therefore it was that, a day or two after, when Miss
Mehitable was making a quiet call at my grandmother’s , and
the party, consisting of my grandmother, Aunt Lois, and
Aimt Keziah, were peacefully rattling their knitting-needles,
while Tina was playing by the river-side , the child’s senses
were suddenly paralysed by the sight of Miss Asphyxia
driving with a strong arm over the bridge near my grand-
mother’s.

In a moment the little one’s heart was in her throat. She
had such an awful faith in Miss Asphyxia’s power to carry
through anything she undertook, that all her courage withered
at once at sight of her. She ran in at the back door , per-
fectly pale with fright, and seized hold imploringly of Miss
Mehitable ’s gown.

44 Oh, she’s coming ! she’s coming after me. Don’t let her
get me!” she exclaimed.

44 What’s the matter now?” said my grandmother. “What
ails the child ? ”

i

Miss Mehitable lifted her in her lap, and began a soothing
course of inquiry ; but the child clung to her, only reiterating,
44 Don’t let her have me ! she is dreadful! don’t!”

44 As true as you live, mother,” said Aunt Lois, who had
tripped to the window, 44 there’s Miss Asphyxia Smith hitching
her horse at our picket fence.”

44 She is?” said my grandmother, squaring her shoulders,
and setting herself in fine martial order. “Well, let her
come in; she’s welcome, I’m sure. I’d like to talk to that
woman! It’s a free country, and everybody’s got to speak
their minds,” — and my grandmother rattled her needles with
great energy.

In a moment more Miss Asphyxia entered. She was ar-

280

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

rayed in her best Sunday clothes , and made the neighbourly
salutations with an air of grim composure. There was
silence, and a sense of something brooding in the air, as there
often is before the outburst of a storm.

Finally, Miss Asphyxia opened the trenches. “I come
over, Mis’ Badger, to see about a gal o’ mine that has run
away.” Here her eye rested severely on Tina.

“Run away!” quoth my grandmother, briskly; “and good
reason she should run away; all I wonder at is that you have
the face to come to a Christian family after her, — that’s all.
Well, she is provided for, and you’ve no call to be inquiring
anything about her. So I advise you to go home, and attend
to your own affairs, and leave children to folks that know how
to manage them better than you do.”

“1 expected this, Mis’ Badger,” said Miss Asphyxia, in a
towering wrath, “but I’d have you to know that I ain’t a
person that’s going to take sa’ace from no one. No deacon
nor deacon’s wife , nor perfessor of religion , ’s a goin’ to turn
up their noses at me ! I can hold up my head with any on
’em , and I think your religion might teach you better than
takin’ up stories agin your neighbours , as a little lyin’, artful
hussy’ll tell.” Here there was a severe glance at Miss Tina,
who quailed before it, and clung to Miss Mehitable’s gown.
“ Yes, indeed, you may hide your head,” she continued, “but
you can’t git away from the truth; not when I’m round to
bring you out. Yes, Mis’ Badger, I defy her to say I hain’t
done well by her, if she says the truth; for I say it now, this
blessed minute , and would say it on my dyin’ bed , and you
can ask Sol ef that ’ere child hain’t had everything pervided
for her that a child could want, — a good clean bed and plenty
o’ bedclothes, and good whole clothes to wear, and her belly
full o’ good victuals every day; an’ me a teachin’ and a
trainin’ on her, enough to wear the very life out o’ me, — for I

Digitized by Google

MISS ASPHYXIA GOES IN PURSUIT. 281

always hated young uns, and this ’ere’s a perfect little limb
as I ever did see. Why, what did she think I was a goin’ to
do for her? I didn’t make a lady on her; to be sure I
didn’t: I was a fetchin’ on her up to work for her livin’ as 1
was fetched up. I hadn’t nothin’ more’n she; an’ just look
at me now; there ain’t many folks that can turn off as much
work in a day as I can , though 1 say it that shouldn’t. And
I’ve got as pretty a piece of property, and as well seen to, as
most any round; and all I’ve got — house and lands — is my
own arnins, honest, so they’re! There’s folks, 1 s’pose, that
thinks they can afford to keep tavern for all sorts of stragglers
and runaways, Injun and white. I never was one o’ them sort
of folks, an’ I should jest like to know ef those folks is able,
— that’s all. I guess if ’counts was added up, my ’counts
would square up better’n theirn.”

Here Miss Asphyxia elevated Iier nose and sniffed over my
grandmother’s cap-border in a very contemptuous maimer,
and the cap-border bristled defiantly , but undismayed , back
again.

“Come now, Mis’ Badger, have it out; I ain’t afraid of
you! I’d just like to have you tell me what I could ha’ done
more nor better for this child.”

“ Done! ” quoth my grandmother, with a pop like a roasted
chestnut bursting out of the fire. “ Why, you’ve done what
you’d no business to. You’d no business to take a child at
all; you haven’t got a grain of motherliness in you. Why,
look at natur’, that might teach you that more than meat and
drink and clothes is wanted for a child. Hens brood their
chickens , and keep ’em warm under their wings ; and cows
lick their calves and cosset ’em , and it’s a mean shame that
folks will take ’em away from them. There’s our old cat will
lie an hour on the kitchen floor and let her kittens lug and
pull at her, atween sleeping and waking, just to keep ’em

Digitized by Google

282

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

warm and comfortable, you know. ’T ain’t just feedin’ and
clothin’ back and belly that’s all; it’s broodin' that young
creeturs wants ; and you hain’t got a bit of broodin’ in you ;
your heart’s as hard as the nether mill-stone. Sovereign
grace may soften it some day , but nothin’ else can ; you’re a
poor, old, hard, worldly woman , Miss Asphyxia Smith, that’s
what you are! If divine grace could have broken in upon
you, and given you a heart to love the child , you might have
brought her up, ’cause you are a smart woman, and an honest
one; that nobody denies.” •

Here Miss Mehitable took up the conversation, surveying
Miss Asphyxia with that air of curious attention with which
one studies a human being entirely out of the line of one’s
personal experience. Miss Mehitable was, as we have shown,
in every thread of her being and education an aristocrat, and
had for Miss Asphyxia that polite, easy tolerance which a
sense of undoubted superiority gives, united with a shrewd
pleasure in the study of a new and peculiar variety of the
human species.

“My good Miss Smith,” she observed, in conciliatory
tones, “by your own account you must have had a great deal
of trouble with this child. Now I propose for the future to
relieve you of it altogether. I do not think you would ever
succeed in making as efficient a person as yourself of her.
It strikes me,” she added, with a humorous twinkle of her
eye, “that there are radical differences of nature, which
would prevent her growing up like yourself. I don’t doubt
you conscientiously intended to do your duty by her, and I
beg you to believe that you need have no further trouble
with her.”

“Goodness gracious knows,” said Miss Asphyxia, “the
child ain’t much to fight over, — she was nothin’ but a plague ;

1USS ASPHYXIA GOES IN PURSUIT.

283

and I’d rather have done all she did any day, than to ’a' had
her round under my feet. I hate young uns, anyway.”

“Then why, my good woman, do you object to parting
with her?”

“Who said I did object? I don’t care nothin’ about part-
ing with her; all is, when I begin a thing I like to go through
with it.”

“But if it isn’t worth going through with,” said Miss
Mehi table, “it’s as well to leave it, is it not?”

“And I’d got her clothes made, — not that they’re worth
so very much, but then they’re worth just what they are
worth, anyway,” said Miss Asphyxia.

Here Tina made a sudden impulsive dart from Miss
Mehitable’s lap, and ran out of the back-door, and over to
her new home, and up into the closet of the chamber where
was hanging the new suit of homespun in which Miss Asphyxia
had arrayed her. She took it down and rolled the articles
all together in a tight bundle, which she secured with a
string, and, before the party in the kitchen had ceased
wondering at her flight, suddenly reappeared, with flushed
cheeks and dilated eyes, and tossed the bundle into Miss
Asphyxia’s lap. “ There’s every bit you ever gave me ,” she
said; “I don’t want to keep a single thing.”

“My dear, is that a proper way to speak?” said Miss
Mehi table, reprovingly; but Tina saw my grandmother’s
broad shoulders joggling with a secret laugh , and discerned
twinkling lines in the reproving gravity which Miss Mehitable
tried to assume. She felt pretty sure of her ground by this
time.

“Well, it’s no use talkin’,” said Miss Asphyxia, rising.
“ If folks think they’re able to bring up a beggar child like a
lady, it’s their look-out and not mine. I wasn’t aware,” she
added, with severe irony, “that Parson Kossiter left so much

284

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

of an estate that you could afford to bring up other folks’
children in silks and satins.”

“Our estate isn’t much,” said Miss Mehitable, good-
naturedly, “ but we shall make the best of it.”

“ Well, now, you just mark my words, Miss Rossiter,” said
Miss Asphyxia, “that ’ere child will never grow up a smart
woman with your bringin’ up; she’ll run jest right over you,
and you’ll let her have her head in everything. I see jest
how’t ’ll be; I don’t want nobody to tell me.”

“I dare say you are quite right, Miss Smith,” said Miss
Mehitable; “I haven’t the slightest opinion of my own
powers in that line; but she may be happy with me for all
that.”

“Happy?” repeated Miss Asphyxia, with an odd intona-
tion, as if she were repeating a sound of something imper-
fectly comprehended, and altogether out of her line. “0,
well , if folks is goin’ to begin to talk about that , I hain’t got
time; it don’t seem to me that that's what this ’ere world’s
for.”

“What is it for, then?” said Miss Mehitable, who felt an
odd sort of interest in the human specimen before her.

“Meant for? Why, for hard work, I s’pose; that’s all I
ever found it for. Talk about coddling! it’s little we get o’
that, the way the Lord fixes things in this world, dear knows.
He’s pretty up and down with us, by all they tell us. You
must take tilings right off, when they’re goin’. Ef you
don’t, so much the worse for you; they won’t wait for you.
Lose an hour in the morning, and you may chase it till ye
drop down, you never’ll catch it! That’s the way things
goes, and I should like to know who’s a going to stop to
quiddle with young uns? ’T ain’t me, that’s certain; so, as
there’s no more to be made by this ’ere talk , I may’s well be
goin’. You’re welcome to the young un, ef you say so; I

MISS ASPHYXIA GOES IN PURSUIT.

285

jest wanted you to know that what I begun Fd V gone
through with, ef you hadn’t stepped in ; and I didn’t want no
reflections on my good name , neither , for I had my ideas of
what’s right, and can have ’em yet, I s’pose, if Mis’ Badger
does think I’ve got a heart of stone. I should like to know
how I’m to have any other when I ain’t elected, and I don’t
see as I am , or likely to be , and I don’t see neither why I
ain’t full as good as a good many that be.”

“Well, well, Miss Smith,” said Miss Mehi table, “we can’t
any of us enter into those mysteries, but I respect your
motives, and would be happy to see you any time you will
call , and I’m in liopes to teach this little girl to treat you
properly,” she said, taking the child’s hand.

“Likely story,” said Miss Asphyxia, with a short, hard
laugh. “ She’ll get ahead o’ you, you’ll see that; but I don’t
hold malice, so good morning,” — and Miss Asphyxia suddenly
and promptly departed, and was soon seen driving away at a
violent pace.

“ Upon my word, that woman isn’t so bad, now,” said Miss
Mehitable, looking after her, while she leisurely inhaled a
pinch of snuff.

“0, I’m so glad you didn’t let her have me!” said
Tina.

“To think of a creature so dry and dreary, so devoid even
of the conception of enjoyment in life,” said Miss Mehitable,
“hurrying through life without a moment’s rest, — without
even the capacity of resting if she could, and all for what?”

“ For my part, mother, I think you were down too hard on
her,” said Aunt Lois.

“ Not a bit,” said my grandmother, cheerily. “ Such folks
ought to be talked to ; it may set her to thinking, and do her
good. I’ve had it on my heart to give that woman a piece of
my mind ever since the children came here. Come here, my

286

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

poor little dear,” said she to Tina, with one of her impulsive
outgushes of motherliness. “I know you must be hungry
by this time ; come into the buttery, and see what I’ve got
for you.”

Now there was an indiscreet championship of Miss Tina,
a backing of her in her treatment of Miss Asphyxia, in this
overflow , which Aunt Lois severely disapproved , and which
struck Miss Mehitable as not being the very best thing to
enforce her own teachings of decorum and propriety.

The small young lady tilted into the buttery after my
grandmother, with the flushed cheeks and triumphant air of
a victor, and they heard her little tongue tunning with the
full assurance of having a sympathetic listener.

“ Now mother will spoil that child , if you let her,” said
Aunt Lois. “ She’s the greatest hand to spoil children; she
always lets ’em have what they ask for. I expect Susy’s
boys’ll be raising Cain round the house; they would if it
wasn’t for me. They have only to follow mother into that
buttery, and out they come with great slices of bread and
butter, any time of day, — yes, and even sugar on it, if you’ll
believe me.”

“And does ’em good, too,” said my grandmother, who
reappeared from the buttery, with Miss Tina tilting and
dancing before her , with a confirmatory slice of bread and
butter and sugar in her hand. “Tastes good, don’t it, dear?”
said she, giving the child a jovial chuck under her little
chin.

“Yes, indeed,” said Miss Tina; “I’d like to have old nasty
Sphixy see me now.”

“Tut, tut! my dear,” said grandmother; “good little girls
don’t call names;” — but at the same time the venerable
gentlewoman nodded and winked in the most open manner
across the curly head at Miss Mehitable, and her portly

MISS ASPHYXIA GOES IN PURSUIT.

287

shoulders shook with laughter, so that the young culprit was
not in the least abashed at the reproof.

“Mother, I do wonder at you!” said Aunt Lois, indig-
nantly.

“Never you mind, Lois; I guess I’ve brought up more
children than ever you did,” said my grandmother, cheerily.
“There, my little dear,” she added, “you may run down to
your play now , and never fear that anybody’s going to get
your

Miss Tina, upon this hint, gladly ran off to finish an archi-
tectural structure of pebbles by the river, which she was busy
in building at the time when the awful vision of Miss
Asphyxia appeared; and my grandmother returned to her
buttery to attend to a few matters which had been left un-
finished in the morning work.

“ It is a very serious responsibility,” said Miss Mehitable,
when she had knit awhile in silence, “ at my time of life , to
charge one’s self with the education of a child. One treats
one’s self to a child as one buys a picture or a flower, but the
child will not remain a picture or a flower; and then comes
the awful question, what it may grow to be, and what share
you may have in detennining its future?”

“ Well, old Parson Moore used to preach the best sermons
on family government that ever I heard,” said Aunt Lois.
“ He said you must begin in the very beginning and break a
child’s will, — short off, — nothing to be done without that. I
remember he whipped little Titus, his first son, oft’ and on,
nearly a whole day, to make him pick up a pocket-handker-
chief.”

Here the edifying conversation was interrupted by a loud
explosive expletive from the buttery, which showed that my
grandmother was listening with anything but approbation.

“ Fiddlesticks ! ” quoth she.

288

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

“And did he succeed in entirely subduing the child’s will
in that one effort? ” said Miss Mehi table, musingly.

“Well, no. Mrs. Moore told me he had to have twenty or
thirty just such spells before he brought him under; but he
persevered, and he broke his will at last, — at least so far that
he always minded when his father was round.”

“Fiddlesticks!” quoth my grandmother, in a yet louder
and more explosive tone.

“Mrs. Badger does not appear to sympathise with your
views,” said Miss Mehitable.

“0, mother? Of course she don’t; she has her own ways
and doings , and she won’t hear to reason,” said Aunt Lois.

“ Come, come, Lois ; I never knew an old maid who didn’t
think she knew just how to bring up children,” said my grand-
mother. “ Wish you could have tried yourself with that sort
of doxy when you was little. Guess if I’d broke your will , I
should ha’ had to break you for good an’ all , for your will is
about all there is of you! But I tell you, I had too much to
do to spend a whole forenoon making you pick up a pocket-
handkerchief. When you didn’t mind, I hit you a good clip,
and picked it up myself; and when you wouldn’t go where I
wanted you , I picked you up , neck and crop , and put you
there. That was my government. I let your will take care
of itself. I thought the Lord had given you a pretty strong
one, and he knew what ’twas for, and could take care of it
in his own time, which hain’t come as yet, I see.”

Now this last was one of those personal thrusts with
which dear family friends are apt to give arguments a prac-
tical application; and Aunt Lois’s spare, thin cheeks flushed
up as she said, in an aggrieved tone, “Well, I s’pose I’m
dreadful, of course. Mother always contrives to turn round
on me.”

“Well, Lois, I hate to hear folks talk nonsense,” said my

MISS ASPHYXIA GOES IN PURSUIT.

289

grandmother, who by this time had got a pot of cream under
her arm, which she was stirring with the pudding-stick; and
this afforded her an opportunity for emphasising her sen-
tences with occasional dumps of the same.

“ People don’t need to talk to me,” she said, “ about Par-
son Moore’s government. Tite Moore wasn’t any great
shakes, after all the row they made about him. He was well
enough while his father was round, but about the worst boy
that ever I saw when his eye was off from him. Good or bad,
my children was about the same behind my back that they
were before my face, anyway.”

“ Well, now, there was Aunt Sally Morse,” said Aunt Lois,
steadily ignoring the point of my grandmother’s discourse.
“There was a woman that brought up children exactly to
suit me. Everything went like clock-work with her babies;
they were nursed just so often, and no more; they were put
down to sleep at just such a time, and nobody was allowed
to rock ’em, or sing to ’em, or fuss with ’em. If they cried,
she just whipped them till they stopped; and when they
began to toddle about, she never put things out of their reach,
but just slapped their hands whenever they touched them, till
they learnt to let things alone.”

“Slapped their hands!” quoth my grandmother, “and
learnt them to let things alone! I’d like to ha’ seen that
tried on my children. Sally had a set of white, still children,
that were all just like dipped candles by natur’, and she laid
it all to her management; and look at ’em now they’re grown
up. They’re decent, respectable folks, but noways better
than other folks’ children. Lucinda Morse ain’t a bit better
than you are , Lois , if she was whipped and made to lie still
when she was a baby, and you were taken up and rocked
when you cried. All is, they had hard times when they were
little, and cried themselves to sleep nights, and were hectored
Oldtoun Folks. /, 19

290

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

and worried when they ought to have been taking some
comfort. Ain’t the world hard enough, without fighting
babies, I want to know? I hate to see a woman that don’t
want to rock her own baby, and is contriving ways all the
time to shirk the care of it. Why, if ail the world was that
way, there would be no sense in Scriptur’. ‘As one whom
his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you,’ the Bible says, #
taking for granted that mothers were made to comfort child-
ren and give them good times when they are little. Sally'
Morse was always talking about her system. She thought
she did wonders , ’cause she got so much time to piece bed-
quilts , and work counterpanes , and make pickles, by turning
off her children; but I took my comfort in mine, and let
them have their comfort as they went along. It’s about all
the comfort there is in this world, anyway, and they’re none
the worse for it now, as I see.”

“Well, in all these cases there is a medium, if we could
hit it,” said Miss Mehitable. “There must be authority over
these ignorant, helpless little folks in early years, to keep
them from ruining themselves”’

“0 yes. Of course there must be government,” said my
grandmother. “I always made my children mind me; but
I wouldn’t pick quarrels with ’em , nor keep up long fights to
break their will; if they didn’t mind, I came down on ’em,
and had it over with at once, and then was done with ’em.
They turned out pretty fair, too,” said my grandmother,
complacently , giving an emphatic thump with her pudding-
stick.

“I was reading Mr. John Locke’s treatise on education
yesterday,” said Miss Mehitable. “It strikes me there are
many good ideas in it.”

“Well, one live child puts all your treatises to rout,” said
my grandmother. “There ain’t any two children alike; and

MISS ASPHYXIA GOES IN PURSUIT.

291

what works with one won’t with another. Folks have just got
to open their eyes, and look and see what the Lord meant
when he put the child together, if they can, and not stand in
his way; and after all we must wait for sovereign grace to
finish the work ; if the Lord don’t keep the house , the watch-
man waketh but in vain. Children are the heritage of the
Lord, — that’s all you can make of it.”

My grandmother, like other warm-tempered, impulsive,
dictatorial people , had formed her theories of life to suit her
own style of practice. She was, to be sure, autocratic in her
own realm, and we youngsters knew that, at certain times,
when her blood was up , it was but a word and a blow for us,
and that the blow was quite likely to come first and the word
afterward; but the temporary severities of kindly-natured,
generous people never lessen the affection of children or ser-
vants , any more than the too hot rays of the benignant sun,
or the too driving patter of the needful rain. When my
grandmother detected us in a childish piece of mischief, and
soundly cuffed our ears, or administered summary justice
with immediate polts of her rheumatic crutch , we never felt
the least rising of wrath or rebellion, but only made off as
fast as possible, generally convinced that the good woman
was in the right of it, and that we got no more than we
deserved.

I remember one occasion when Bill had been engaged in
making some dressed chickens dance, which she had left
trussed up with the liver and lights duly washed and replaced
within them. Bill set them up on their pins, and put them
through active gymnastics , in course of which those interior
treasures were rapidly scattered out upon the table. A howl
of indignation from grandmother announced coming wrath,
and Bill darted out of the back door, while I was summarily
seized and chastised.

19 *

Digitized by Google

292

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

“ Grandmother, grandmother! I didn’t do it,— it was
Bill.”

“Well, but I can’t eatchBill, you see,” said my venerable
monitor, continuing the infliction.

“But I didn’t do it.”

“Well, let it stand for something you did do, then,” quoth
my grandmother, by this time quite pacified; “you do bad
things enough that you ain’t whipped for, any day.”

The whole resulted in a large triangle of pumpkin pie, ad-
ministered with the cordial warmth of returning friendship,
and thus the matter was happily adjusted. Even the prodigal
son Bill, when, returning piteously, and standing penitent
under the milk-room window, he put in a submissive plea,
“ Please, grandmother, I won’t do so any more ,” was allowed
a peaceable slice of the same comfortable portion , and bid to
go in peace.

I remember another funny instance of my grandmother’s
discipline. It was when I was a little fellow, seated in the
chimney-corner at my grandfather’s side. I had discovered
a rising at the end of my shoe-sole , which showed that it was
beginning to come off. It struck me as a funny thing to do
to tear up the whole sole , which piece of mischief my grand-
father perceiving, he raised his hand to chastise.

“Come here, Horace, quick!” said my grandmother,
imperatively, that she might save me from the impending
blow.

I lingered, whereat she made a dart at me, and seized me.
Just as my grandfather boxed my ear on one side, she hit me
a similar cuff on the other.

“Why didn’t you come when I called you?” she said:
“now you’ve got your ears boxed both sides.”

Somewhat bewildered , I retreated under her gown in dis-

WHAT IS TO BE DONE WITH THE BOY? 293

grace, but I was, after a relenting moment, lifted into her
lap, and allowed to go to sleep upon her ample bosom.

“Mother, why don’t you send that boy to bed, nights?”
said Aunt Lois. “You never have any regular rules about
anything.”

“Law, he likes to sit up and see the fire as well as any of
us, Lois; and do let him have all the comfort he can as he
goes along, poor boy! there ain’t any too much in this world,
anyway.”

“Well, for my part, I think there ought to be system in
bringing up children,” said Aunt Lois.

“ Wait till you get ’em of your own, and then try it, Lois,”
said my grandmother, laughing with a rich, comfortable
laugh, which rocked my little sleepy head up and down, as I
drowsily opened my eyes with a delicious sense of warmth
and security.

From all these specimens it is to be inferred that the
theorists on education will find no improvement in the con-
templation of my grandmother’s methods, and will pronounce
her a pig-headed , passionate, impulsive, soft-hearted body,
as entirely below the notice of a rational, inquiring mind as
an old brooding hen , which model of maternity in many re-
spects she resembled. It may be so, but the longer I live,
the more faith I have in grandmothers and grandmotherly
logic , of which , at some future time , I shall give my views
at large.

CHAPTER XXL

What is to be done with the Boy?

“Well,” said my Aunt Lois, as she gave the last sweep
to the hearth , after she had finished washing up the supper-
dishes ; “ I’ve been up to Ebal Scran’s store this afternoon, to

294

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

see about soling Horace’s Sunday-slioes. Ebal will do’em as
reasonable as any one ; and he spoke to me to know whether
I knew of any boy that a good family would like to bind out
to him for an apprentice, and I told him I’d speak to you
about Horace. It’ll be time pretty soon to think of putting
him at something.”

Among the many unexplained and inexplicable woes of
childhood , are its bitter antagonisms , so perfectly powerless,
yet often so very decided, against certain of the grown people
who control it. Perhaps some of us may remember respect-
able , well-meaning people , with whom in our mature years
we live in perfect amity, but who in our childhood appeared
to us bitter enemies. Children are remarkably helpless in
this respect, because they cannot choose their company and
surroundings as grown people can; and are sometimes entirely
in the power of those with whom their natures are so unsym-
pathetic that they may be almost said to have a constitutional
aversion to them. Aunt Lois was such a one to me , princi-
pally because of her forecasting, untiring, pertinacious, care-
taking propensities. She had already looked over my lot in
life, and set down in her own mind what was to be done with
me, and went at it with a resolute energy that would not wait
for the slow development of circumstances.

That I should want to study, as my father did, — that I
should for this cause hang as an unpractical , unproductive,
dead weight on the family, — was the evil which she saw in
prospective, against which my grandfather’s placid easy
temper, and my grandmother’s impulsive bountifulness, gave
her no security. A student in the family, and a son in college,
she felt to be luxuries to which a poor widow in dependent
circumstances had no right to look forward, and therefore she
opened the subject betimes, with prompt energy, by the pro-
position above stated.

Digitized by Google

WHAT IS TO BE DONE WITH THE BOY? 295

My mother, who sat on the other side of the fireplace,
looked at me with a fluttering look of apprehension. I flushed
up in a sort of rage that somehow Aunt Lois always succeeded
in putting me into. “I don’t want to be a shoemaker, and I
won’t neither,” I said.

“ Tut, tut,” said my grandfather, placidly, from his corner;
“we don’t let little boys say ‘won’t’ here.”

I now burst out crying, and ran to my grandmother, sob-
bing as if my heart would break.

“ Lois, can't you let this boy alone ? ” said my grandmother,
vengefully; “I do wonder at you. Poor little fellow! his
father ain’t quite cold in his grave yet, and you want to pitch
him out into the world ,” — and my grandmother seized me in
her strong arms, and lulled me against her ample bosom.
“There, poor boy, don’t you cry; you shan’t, no, you shan’t;
you shall stay and help grandma, so you shall.”

“Great help he is,” said Aunt Lois, contemptuously; “gets
a book in his hand and goes round with his head in a bag;
never gives a message right, and is always stumbling over
things that are right in his way. There’s Harry, now, is as
handy as a girl, and if he says he’ll do a thing, I know ’t ’ll
be done,” — and Aunt Lois illustrated her doctrine by calling
up Harry, and making him stretch forth his arms for a skein
of blue-mixed yarn which she was going to wind. The fire-
light shone full on his golden curls and clear blue eyes as he
stood obediently and carefully yielding to Aunt Lois’s quick,
positive movements. As she wound, and twitched, and pulled,
with certainly twice the energy that the work in hand re-
quired, his eyes followed her motions with a sort of quiet
drollery; there was a still, inward laugh in them, as if she
amused him greatly.

Such open comparisons between two boys might have
gone far to destroy incipient friendship; but Harry seemed

296

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

to be in a wonderful degree gifted with the faculties that
made him a universal favourite. All the elders of the family
liked him, because he was quiet and obedient, always doing
with cheerful promptness exactly what he was bidden, unless,
as sometimes happened in our family circle , he was bidden
to do two or three different things at one and the same time,
when he would stand looking innocently puzzled, till my
grandmother and Aunt Lois and Aunt Keziah had settled it
among them whose was to be the ruling will. He was deft
and neat-handed as a girl about any little offices of a domestic
* nature; he was thoughtful and exact in doing errands; he was
delicately clean and neat in his personal habits; he never
tracked Aunt Lois’s newly-scoured floor with the traces of
unwiped shoes ; he never left shavings and litter on a cleanly-
swept hearth , or tumbled and deranged anything , so that he
might safely be trusted on errands even to the most sacred
precincts of a housekeeper’s dominions. What boy with all
these virtues is not held a saint by all women-folk? Yet,
though he was frequently commended in all those respects,
to my marked discredit, Harry was to me a sort of necessary
of life. There was something in his nature that was wanting
to mine, and I attached myself to him with a pertinacity
which had never before marked my intercourse with any
boy.

A day or two after the arrival of the children, the minister
and Lady Lothrop had called on my grandmother in all the
dignity of their station , and taken an approving view of the
boy. Lady Lothrop had engaged to take him under her
care, and provide a yearly sum for his clothing and education.
She had never had a child of her own, and felt that diffidence
about taking the entire charge of a boy which would be
natural to a person of fastidious and quiet habits, and she
therefore signified that it would be more agreeable to her if

WHAT IS TO BE DONE WITH THE BOY? 297

my grandmother would allow him to make one of her own
family circle, — a proposal to which she cheerfully assented,
saying, that “one more chick makes little difference to an
old hen.”

I immediately petitioned that I might have Harry for a
bed-fellow, and he and I were allowed a small bedroom to
ourselves at the head of the back- stairs. It was a rude little
crib, roughly fenced off from the passage-way by unplaned
boards of different heights. A pine table, two stools, a small
trundle-bed, and a rude case of drawers, were all its furniture.
Harry’s love of order was strikingly manifest in the care which
he took of this little apartment. His few articles of clothing
and personal belongings all had their exact place, and always
were bestowed there with scrupulous regularity. He would
adjust the furniture, straighten the bed-clothing, and quietly
place and replace the things that I in my fitful, nervous
eagerness was always disarranging; and when, as often hap-
pened in one of my spasms of enthusiasm, I turned every-
thing in the room topsy-turvy, searching for something I had
lost, or projecting some new arrangement, he would wait
peaceably till I had finished, and then noiselessly get every-
thing back again into its former order. He never quarrelled
with me, or thwarted me in my turbulent or impatient moods,
but seemed to wait for me to get through whatever I was do-
ing, when he would come in and silently rearrange. He was,
on the whole, a singularly silent child, but with the kind of
silence which gives a sense of companionship. It was evident
that he was always intensely observant and interested in
whatever was going on before him, and ready at any moment
to take a friendly part when he was wanted; but for the most
part his place in the world seemed that of an amused listener
and observer. Life seemed to present itself to him as a
curious spectacle, and he was never tired of looking and

298

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

listening, watching the ways and words of all our family
circle, and often smiling to himself as if they afforded him
great diversion. Aunt Lois, with her quick, sharp move-
ments, her determined, outspoken ways, seemed to amuse
him as much as she irritated me , and I would sometimes see
him turn away with a droll smile when he had been watching
one of her emphatic courses round the room. He had a
certain tact in avoiding all the sharp corners and angles of
her character, which, in connexion with his handiness and
his orderly ways, caused him at last to become a prime
favourite with her. With his quiet serviceableness and
manual dexterity , he seemed to be always the one that was
exactly wanting to do an odd turn , so that at last he came to
be depended on for many little inferior offices, which he-
rendered with a good-will none the less cheerful because of
his silence.

“There's time enough to think about what Horace is to
do another year,” said my grandfather, having reflected some
moments after the passage of arms between my grandmother
and Aunt Lois. “He’s got to have some schooling. The
boys had both better go to school for this winter, and then
we’ll see what next.”

“Well, I just mentioned about Ebal Scran, because he’s
a good man to take a boy, and he wants one now. If we
don’t take that chance, it may not come again.”

“ Wal, Miss Lois,” said Sam Lawson, who had sat silent
in a dark corner of the chimney, “cf I was to say about
Horace, I’d say he’d do better for somethin’ else ’n shoe-
makin’. He’s the most amazin’ little fellow to read I ever
see. As much as a year ago Jake Marshall and me and the
other fellers round to the store used to like to get him to read
the Columbian Sentinel to us; he did it off slicker than any
on us could , he did , — there wan’t no kind o’ word could stop

Digitized by Google

WHAT 18 TO BE DONE WITH THE BOY?

299

him. I should say such a boy as that ought to have a liberal
education.”

“ And who ’s going to pay for it?” said Aunt Lois, turning
round on him sharply. U I suppose you know it costs some-
thing to get a man through college. We never can afford to
send him to college. It’s all we can do to bring his Uncle
Bill through.”

“Well, well,” said my grandmother, “there’s no use
worrying the child, one way or the other.”

“They can both go to district school this winter,” said my
grandfather.

“Well,” said Aunt Lois, “the other day I found him down
in a corner humping his back out over a Latin grammar that
I’d put away with all the rest of his father’s books on the
back side of the upper shelf in our closet, and I took it away
from him. If he was going to college, why, it’s well enough
to study for it; but if he isn’t we don’t want him idlin’ round
with scraps of Latin in his head like old Jock Twitchel,— got
just Latin enough to make a fool of his English, and he’s
neither one thing nor another.”

“1 do wonder, Lois, what there is under the sun that you
don’t feel called to see to,” said my grandmother. “What
do you want to quarrel with the child for? He shall have
his Latin grammar if he wants it, and any of the rest of his
father’s books, poor child. I s’pose he likes ’em because they
were his poor father’s.”

I leaped for joy in my grandmother’s lap, for my father’s
precious books had been in a state of blockade ever since we
had been in the house , and it was only by putting a chair on
a table one day , when Aunt Lois and my mother were out,
that I had managed to help myself to the Latin grammar,
out of which my father had begun to teach me before he
died.

300

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

“Well, well,” said Aunt Lois, “at any rate it’s eight
o’clock, and time these boys went to bed.”

Upon this hint Harry and I went to our little bedroom
without the ceremony of a candle. It was a frosty autumn
night, but a good, clear square of moonlight lay on the
floor.

Now Harry, in common with many other very quiet-natured
people, was remarkable for a peculiar persistency in all his
ways and manners. Ever since I had roomed with him , I
had noticed with a kind of silent wonder the regularity of his
nightly devotional exercises, to which he always addressed
himself before he went to bed, with an appearance of simple
and absorbed fervour, kneeling down by the bed, and speaking
in a low, earnest tone of voice, never seeming to hurry or
to abbreviate, as I was always inclined to do whenever I
attempted similar performances. In fact, as usually I said
no prayers at all, there was often an awkward pause and
stillness on my part, while I watched and waited for Harry
to be through with his devotions, so that I might resume the
thread of worldly conversation.

Now to me the perseverance with which he performed these
nightly exercises was unaccountable. The doctrines which
in that day had been gaining ground in New England, with
regard to the utter inutility and unacceptableness of any
prayers or religious doings of the unregenerate , had borne
their legitimate fruits in causing parents to become less and
less particular in cultivating early habits of devotion in
children; and so, when I had a room to myself, my mother
had ceased to take any oversight of my religious exercises ;
and as I had overheard my Aunt Lois maintaining very
stringently that there was no use in it so long as my heart
was not changed , I very soon dropped the form. So , when
night after night I noticed Harry going on with his devotions,

WHAT IS TO BE DONE WITH THE BOY?

301

it seemed to me, from my more worldly point of view, that he
gave himself a great deal of unnecessary trouble, particularly
if, after all, his prayers did no good. I thought I would
speak with him about it, and accordingly this night I said
to him, “Harry, do you think it does any good to say your
prayers?”

“ To be sure I do,” he said.

“But if your heart hasn’t been changed, your prayer is an
abomination to the Lord. Aunt Lois says so,” I said, re-
peating a scriptural form I had often heard quoted.

Harry turned over, and in the fading daylight I saw his
eyes, large, clear, and tranquil. There was not the shadow
of a cloud in them. “I don’t know anything about that,” he
said quietly. “ You see I don’t believe that sort of talk. God
is our Father; He loves us. If we want things, and ask Him
for them, He will give them to us if it is best; mother always
told me so, and I find it is so. I promised her always to say
these prayers, and to believe that God loves us. I always
' shall.”

“Do you really think so, Harry?” I said.

• “ Why, yes; to be sure I do.”

“I mean, do you ever ask God for things you want? 1
don’t mean saying prayers, but asking for anything.”

“Of course I do. I always have, and He gives them
to me. He always has taken care of me, and He always
will.”

“Now, Harry,” said I, “I want to go to college, and Aunt
Lois says there isn’t any money to send me there. She wants
mother to bind me out to a shoemaker; and I’d rather die
than do that. I love to study, and I mean to learn. Now do
you suppose if I ask God He will help me?”

“ Certainly He will,” said Harry, with an incredible firm-
ness and quietness of manner. “Just you try it.”

302

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

“Don’t you want to study and go to college?” said I.

“Certainly I do. I ask God every night that I may if it
is best,” he said, with simplicity.

“It will be a great deal harder for you than for me,” 1 said,
“because you haven’t any relations.”

“Yes, but God can do anything He pleases,” said Harry,
with a sort of energetic simplicity.

The confidence expressed in his manner produced a kind
of effect upon me. I had urgent needs, too, — longings which
I was utterly helpless ever to fulfil, — particularly that vision-
ary desire to go to college and get an education. “Harry,”
I said, “you ask God that I may go to college.”

“Yes, I will,” he answered, — “I’ll ask every night. But
then,” he added, turning over and looking at me, “why don’t
you ask yourself, Horace?”

It was difficult for me to answer that question. I think
that the differences among human beings in the natural power
of faith are as great as any other constitutional diversity, and
that they begin in childhood. Some are born believers, and
some are born sceptics. I was one of the latter. There was
an eternal query, — a habitual interrogation-point to almost
every proposition in my mind, even from childhood,— a habit
of looking at anything from so many sides, that it was diffi-
cult to get a settled assent to anything.

Perhaps the curious kind of double life that I led confirmed
this sceptical tendency. I was certain that I constantly saw
and felt things, the assertion of whose existence as I saw
them drew down on me stinging reproofs and radical doubts
of my veracity. This led me to distrust my own perceptions
on all subjects, for I was no less certain of what I saw and
felt in the spiritual world than of what I saw and felt in the
material; and if I could be utterly mistaken in the one, I
could also be in the other.

Digitized by Google

WHAT IS TO BE DONE WITH THE BOY?

303

The repression and silence about this which became the
habit of my life formed a covering for a constant wondering
inquiry. The habit of reserve on these subjects had become
sa intense , that even to Harry I never spoke of it. I think
I loved Harry more than I loved anything; in fact, before he
came to us, I do not think I knew anything of love as a
sentiment. My devotion to my father resembled the blind,
instinctive worship of a dog for his master. My feeling
toward my mother and grandmother was that impulse of
want that induces a chicken to run to a hen in any of its little
straits. It was an animal instinct, — a commerce of helpless-
ness with help.

For Harry I felt a sort of rudimentary, poetical tenderness,
like the love of man for woman. 1 admired his clear blue
eyes, his curling golden hair, his fair, pure complexion, his
refined and quiet habits, and a sort of unconsciousness of self
that there was about him. His simplicity of nature was incor-
ruptible ; he seemed always to speak, without disguise, exactly
what he thought, without the least apparent consideration of
anything but its truth; and this gave him a strange air of
innocency. A sort of quaint humour always bubbling up in
little quiet looks and ways and in harmless practical jokes,
gave me a constant sense of amusement in his society.

As the reader may have observed, we were a sharp-cut and
peculiar set in our house, and sometimes, when the varied
scenes of family life below stairs had amused Harry more
than common, he would, after we had got into our chamber
by ourselves, break into a sudden flow of mimicry, — imitating
now Aunt Lois’s sharp, incisive movements and decided
tones, or flying about like my venerated grandmother in her
most confused and hurried movements or presenting a perfect
image of Uncle Fliakim’s frisky gyrations, till he would
set me into roars of laughter; when he would turn gravely

Digitized by Google

304 , , ' OLDTOWN FOLKS.

round and ask what I was laughing at. He never mentioned
a name, or made remarks about the persons indicated,—
the sole reflection on them "was the absurd truthfulness of
his • imitation; and when I would call out the name, he
would look at me with eyes brimful of mischief, but in utter
silence.

Generally speaking, his language was characterised by a
peculiar nicety in the selection of words, and an avoidance
of clownish or vulgar phraseology, and was such as marks
a child whose early years have all been passed in the inter-
course of refined society, but sometimes he would absurdly
introduce into his conversation scraps from Sam Lawson’s
vocabulary, with flashes of mimicry of his shambling gait,
and the lanky droop of his hands; yet these shifting flashes
of imitation were the only comment he ever made upon
him.

After Harry began to share my apartment, my nightly
visions became less frequent, because, perhaps, instead of
lying wide-awake expecting them, I had him to talk to. Once
or twice, indeed, I saw standing by him, after he had fallen
asleep, that same woman whose blue eyes and golden hair I
had remarked when we were lost in the forest. She looked
down on him with an inexpressible tenderness, and seemed to
bless him; and I used to notice that he spoke oftener of his
mother the next day, and quoted her words to me with the
simple, unquestioning veneration which he always showed for
them.

One thing about Harry which was striking to me, and
which he possessed in common with many still, retiring
people, was great vigour in maintaining his individuality.
It has been the experience of my life that it is your quiet
people who, above all other children of men, are set in their
ways and intense in their opinions. Their very reserve and

WIIAT Ic> TO BE DONE WITH THE BOY?

305

silence are a fortification behind which all their peculiarities
grow and thrive at their leisure, without encountering those
blows and shocks which materially modify more outspoken
natures. It is owing to the peculiar power of quietness that
one sometimes sees characters fashioning themselves in a
manner the least to be expected from the circumstances and
associates which surround them. As a fair, white lily grows
up out of the bed of meadow muck , and , without note or
comment, rejects all in the soil that is alien from her being,
and goes on fashioning her own silver cup side by side with
weeds that are drawing coarser nutriment from the soil, so
we often see a refined and gentle nature by some singular
internal force unfolding itself by its own laws, and confirming
itself in its own beliefs, as wholly different from all that sur-
round it as is the lily from the rag-weed. There are persons,
in fact, who seem to grow almost wholly from within, and on
whom the teachings, the doctrines, and the opinions of those
around them produce little or no impression.

Harry was modest in his bearing; he never put forth an
opinion opposed to those around them, unless a special
question was asked him; but, even from early childhood, the
opinion of no human being seemed to have much power to
modify or alter certain convictions on which his life was based.

I remember, one Sunday, our good Parson Lothrop took
it into his head to preach one of those cool, philosophical
sermons in which certain scholarly and rational Christians in
easy worldly circumstances seem to take delight , — a sort of
preaching which removes the providence of God as far off
from human sympathy as it is possible to be. The amount
of the matter , as he stated it , seemed to be , that the Creator
had devised a very complicated and thorough-working
machine, which He had wound up and set going ages ago,
which brought out results with the undeviating accuracy of
Qldioum Folks. I. 20

306

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

clock-work. Of course there was the declaration that “not

t

a sparrow falleth to the ground without our Father,” and
that “the very hairs of our head are numbered,” standing
square across his way. But we all know that a text of Scrip-
ture is no embarrassment at all in the way of a thorough-
paced theologian , when he has a favourite idea to establish.

These declarations were explained as an Oriental , meta-
phorical way of stating that the All-wise had started a grand
world-machine on general laws which included the greatest
good to the least of His creation.

I noticed that Harry sat gazing at him with clear, wide-
open eyes and that fixed attention which he always gave to
anything of a religious nature. The inference that I drew
from it was , that Harry must be mistaken in his confidence
in prayer, and that the kind of fatherly intervention he looked
for and asked for in his affairs was out of the question. As
we walked home I expected him to say something about it,
but he did not. When we were in our room at night , and he
had finished his prayers , I said , “ Harry , did you notice Dr.
Lothrop’s sermon?”

“Yes, I noticed it,” he said.

“Well, if that is true, what good does it do to pray?”

“It isn’t true,” he said simply.

“How do you know it isn’t?”

“Oh, I know better,” he said.

“But, Harry, — Dr. Lothrop, you know,— why he’s the
minister,” — and what could a boy of that day say more?

“He’s mistaken there, though,” said Harry, quietly, as
he would speak of a man who denied the existence of the sun
or moon. He was too positive and too settled to be in any
frame to argue about it; and the whole of the discourse, which
had seemed to me so damaging to his opinions, melted over
him like so much moonshine. He fell asleep saying to him-

Digitized by Google

WHAT IS TO BE DONE WITH THE BOY? 307

self, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want;” and I
lay awake, wondering in my own mind whether this was the
way to live, and, if it were, why my grandmother and Aunt
Lois, and my father and mother, and all the good people I
had ever known, had so many troubles and worries.

Ages ago, in the green, flowery hollows of the hills of
Bethlehem, a young shepherd boy took this view of life, and
began his days singing, “The Lord b my shepherd, I shall
not want,” and ended them by saying, “Thou hast taught
me from my youth up, and hitherto have I declared Thy
. wondrous works;” and his tender communings with an unseen
Father have come down to our days as witnesses of green
pastures and still waters to be found in this weaiy work- a-
day world, open ever to those who are simple-hearted enough
to seek them. It would seem to be the most natural thing in
the world that the child of an ever-present Father should live
in this way , — that weakness and ignorance , standing within
call and reach of infinite grace and strength , should lay hold
of that Divine helpfulness, and grow to it and by it, as the
vine climbs upon the rock; but yet such lives are the ex-
ception rather than the rule , even among the good. But the
absolute faith of Harry’s mind produced about him an at-
mosphere of composure and restfulness which was , perhaps,
the strongest attraction that drew me to him. I was naturally
nervous, sensitive, excitable, and needed the repose which
he gave me. His quiet belief that all would be right had a
sort of effect on me , and , although I did not fall into his way
of praying, I came to have great confidence in it for him, and
to indulge some vague hopes that something good might come
of it for me.

20 *

308

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

ft

CHAPTER XXII.

Daily Living in Oldtown.

Henceforth my story must be a cord with three strands,
inexplicably intertwisted, and appearing and disappearing in
their regular intervals , as each occupies for the moment the
prominent place. And this threefold cord is composed of
myself, Harry, and Tina. To show how the peculiar life of
old Massachusetts worked upon us, and determined our
growth and character and destinies, is a theme that brings in
many personages, many subjects, many accessories. It is
strange that no human being grows up who does not so
intertwist in his growth the whole idea and spirit of his day,
that rightly to dissect out his history would require one to
cut to pieces and analyse society, law, religion, the meta-
physics and the morals of his times; and, as all these things
run back to those of past days , the problem is still further
complicated. The humblest human being is the sum total of
a column of figures which go back through centuries before
he was born.

Old Crab Smith and Miss Asphyxia, if their biographies
were rightly written, would be found to be the result and out-
come of certain moral and social forces, justly to discriminate
which might puzzle a philosopher. But be not alarmed,
reader; I am not going to puzzle you, but to return in the
briefest time possible to my story.

Harry was adopted into our family circle early in the
autumn; and, after much discussion, it was resolved in the
family synod that he and I should go to the common school
in the neighbourhood that winter, and out of school-hours
share between us certain family tasks or “chores,” as they
were called at home.

Our daily life began at four o’clock in the morning, when

Digitized by Google

DAILY LIVING IN OLDTOWN.

309

the tapping of Aunt Lois’s imperative heels on the back-stairs,
and her authoritative rap at our door, dispelled my slumbers.
1 was never much of a sleeper; my slumbers at best were
light and cat-like; but Harry required all my help aud my
nervous wakefulness to get him to open his drowsy blue eyes,
which he always did with the most perfectly amiable temper.
He had that charming gift of physical good-humour which is
often praised as a virtue in children and in grown people,
but which is a mere condition of the animal nature. We ail
know that there are good-natured animals and irritable
animals, — that the cow is tranquil and gentle, and the hyena
snarly and fretful; but we never think of praising and reward-
ing the one, or punishing the other, for this obvious conforma-
tion. But in the case of the human animal it always happens
that he who has the good luck to have a quiet, imperturbable
nature has also the further good luck of being praised for it
as for a Christian virtue, while he who has the ill fortune to
be born with irritable nerves has the further ill fortune of
being always considered a sinner on account of it.

Nobody that has not suffered from such causes can tell the
amount of torture that a child of a certain nervous formation
undergoes in the mere process of getting accustomed to his
body, to the physical forces of life, and to the ways and
doings of that world of grown-up people who have taken
possession of the earth before him, and are using it, and
determined to go on using it , for their own behoof and con-
venience , in spite of his childish efforts to push in his little
individuality and seize his little portion of existence. He is
at once laid hold upon by the older majority as an instrument
to work out their views of what is fit and proper for himself
and themselves ; and if he proves a hard-working or creaking
instrument, has the further capability of being rebuked and
chastened for it.

Digitized by Google

310

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

My first morning feeling was generally one of anger at
the sound of Aunt Lois’s heels, worthy soul! I have lived to
see the day when the tap of those efficient little instruments
has seemed to me a most praiseworthy and desirable sound;
but in those days they seemed only to be the reveille by which
I was awakened to that daily battle of my will with hers
which formed so great a feature in my life. It imposed , in
the first place , the necessity of my quitting my warm bed in
a room where the thermometer must have stood below zero,
and where the snow, drifting through the loosely-framed
window , often lay in long wreaths on the floor.

As Aunt Lois always opened the door and set in a lighted
candle , one of my sinful amusements consisted in lying and
admiring the forest of glittering frost-work , which had been
made by our breath freezing upon the threads of the blanket.
I sometimes saw rainbow colours in this frost-work, and
went off into dreams and fancies about it, which ended in a
doze , from which I was awakened , perhaps , by some of the
snow from the floor rubbed smartly on my face, and the
words, “How many times must you be called?” and opened
my eyes to the vision of Aunt Lois standing over me indig-
nant and admonitory.

Then I would wake Harry. We would spring from the
bed and hurry on our clothes , buttoning them with fingers
numb with cold, and run down to the back sink -room, where,
in water that flew off in icy spatters, we performed our morn-
ing ablutions , refreshing our faces and hands by a brisk rub
upon a coarse rolling-towel of brown homespun linen. Then
with mittens, hats, and comforters, we were ready to turn out
with old Caesar to the barn to help him fodder the cattle. I
must say that, when it came to this, on the whole it began to
be grand fun for us. As Caesar went ahead of us with his
snow-shovel, we plunged laughing and rolling into the

Digitized by Google

DAILY LIVING IN OLDTOWN.

311

powdery element, with which we plentifully pelted him. Ar-
rived at the barn, we climbed, like cats, upon the mow, whence
we joyously threw down enough for all his foddering pur-
poses, and with such superabundant good-will in our efforts,
that, had need so required, we would have stayed all day and
flung off’ all the hay upon the mow: in fact, like the broom-
stick in the fable, which would persist in bringing water with-
out rhyme or reason, so we overwhelmed our sable friend with
avalanches of hay, which we cast down upon him in an in-
considerate fury of usefulness, and out of which we laughed
to see him tear his way, struggling, gesticulating and re-
monstrating, till his black face shone with perspiration, and
his woolly head bristled with hay-seeds and morsels of
clover.

Then came the feeding of the hens and chickens and other
poultry, a work in which we especially delighted, going alto-
gether beyond Caesar in our largesses of corn, and requiring
a constant interposition of his authority to prevent our empty-
ing the crib on every single occasion.

In very severe weather we sometimes found hens or turkeys
so overcome with the cold as to require, in Caesar’s view, hos-
pital treatment. This awoke our sympathies, and stimulated
our sense of personal importance, and we were never so happy
as when trudging back through the snow, following Caesar
with a great cock-turkey lying languidly over his shoulder
like a sick baby, his long neck drooping, his wattles, erst so
fiery red with pride and valour, now blue and despairing.
Great on such occasions were our zeal and excitement, as
the cavalcade burst into the kitchen with much noise, and
upturning of everything, changing Aunt Lois’s quiet arrange-
ments into an impromptu sanitary commission. My grand-
mother bestirred herself promptly, compounding messes of
Indian-meal enlivened with pepper-corns, which were forced

312

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

incontinently down the long throat,, and which in due time
acted as a restorative.

A turkey treated in this way soon recovered his wonted
pride of demeanour, and, with an ingratitude which is like
the ways of this world , would be ready to bully my grand-
mother and fly at her back when she was picking up chips,
and charge down upon us children with vociferous gobblings,
the very first warm day afterwards. Such toils as these be-
fore breakfast gave a zest to the smoking hot brown bread,
the beans and sausages, which formed our morning meal.

The great abundance of food in our New England life is
one subject quite worthy of reflection, if we consider the hard-
ness of the soil , the extreme severity of the climate , and the
shortness of the growing season between the late frosts of
spring and those of early autumn. But, as matter of fact,
good, plain food was everywhere in New England so plentiful,
tliat at the day I write of nobody could really suffer for the
want of it. The theocracy of New England had been so
thoroughly saturated with the humane and charitable spirit
of the old laws of Moses, in which, dealing “bread to the
hungry” is so often reiterated and enforced as foremost
among human duties , that no one ever thought of refusing
food to any that appeared to need it; and a traveller might
have walked on foot from one end of New England to the
other, as sure of a meal in its season as he was that he saw a
farmhouse. Even if there was now and then a Nabal like
Crab Smith, who, from a native viciousness, hated to do kind-
ness, there was always sure to be in his family an Abigail,
ashamed of his baseness, who redeemed the credit of the
house by a surreptitious practice of the Christian virtues.

I mention all this because it strikes me, in review of my
childhood, that, although far from wealth, and living in many
respects in a hard and rough way, I remember great enjoy-

DAILY LIVING IN OLDTOWN.

313

merit in that part of our physical life so important to a child,
-*-the eating and drinking. Our bread, to be sure, was the
black compound of rye and Indian which the economy of
Massachusetts then made the common form, because it was
the result of what could be most easily raised on her hard and
stony soil; but I can inform all whom it may concern that rye
and Indian bread smoking hot, on a cold winter morning, to-
gether with savoury sausages, pork, and beans, formed a
breakfast fit for a king, if the king had earned it by getting
up in a cold room, washing in ice-water, tumbling through
snow-drifts, and foddering cattle. We partook of it with a
thorough cheeriness ; and black Caesar, seated on his block in
the chimney-corner, divided his rations with Bose, the yellow
dog of our establishment, with a contentment which it was
pleasant to behold.

After breakfast grandfather conducted family prayers,
commencing always by reading his chapter in the Bible. He
read regularly through in course, as was the custom in those
days , without note , comment , or explanation. Among the
many insensible forces which formed the minds of New Eng-
land children , was this constant , daily familiarity with the
letter of the Bible. It was for the most part read twice a day
in every family of any pretensions to respectability, and it
was read as a reading-book in every common school, — in
both cases without any attempt at explanation. Such parts
as explained themselves were left to do so. Such as were
beyond our knowledge were still read, and left to make what
impression they would. For my part, I am impatient of the
theory of those who think that nothing that is not understood
makes any valuable impression on the mind of a child. 1 am
certain that the constant contact of the Bible with my childish
mind was a very great mental stimulant, as it certainly was
a cause of a singular and vague pleasure. The wild , poetic

\

314 OLDTOWN FOLKS.

parts of the prophecies, with their bold figures, vivid exclama-
tions, and strange Oriental names and images, filled me with
a quaint and solemn delight. Just as a child brought up under
the shadow of the great cathedrals of the Old World, wander-
ing into them daily, at morning , or eventide , beholding the
many-coloured windows flamboyant with strange legends of
saints and angels, and neither understanding the legends,
nor comprehending the architecture , is yet stilled and im-
pressed, till the old minster grows into his growth and
fashions his nature , so this wonderful old cathedral book in-
sensibly wrought a sort of mystical poetry into the otherwise
hard and sterile life of New England. Its passionate Oriental
phrases, its quaint, pathetic stories, its wild, transcendent
bursts of imagery, fixed an indelible mark in my imagination.
Where Kedar and Tarshish, and Pul and Lud, Chittim and
the Isles, Dan and Beersheba, were, or what they were, I
knew not, but they were fixed stations in my realm of cloud-
land. I knew them as well as I knew my grandmother’s
rocking-chair, yet the habit of hearing of them only in solemn
tones, and in the readings of religious hours, gave to them a
mysterious charm. I think no New-Englander, brought up
under the regime established by the Puritans, could really
estimate how much of himself had actually been formed by
this constant face-to-face intimacy with Hebrew literature.
It is worthy of remark, too, that, although in details relating
to human crime and vice , the Old Bible is the most plain-
spoken book conceivable , it never violated the chastity of a
child’s mind, or stimulated an improper curiosity. I have
been astonished in later years to learn the real meaning of
passages to which in family prayers I listened with innocent
gravity.

My grandfather’s prayers had a regular daily form, to
which, in time, I became quite accustomed. No man of not

Digitized by Google

DAILY LIVING IN OLDTOWN.

315

more than ordinary capacity ever ministered twice a day the
year round, in the office of priest to his family, without soon
learning to repeat the same ideas in the same phrases, form-
ing to himself a sort of individual liturgy. My grandfather
always prayed standing , and the image of his mild , silvery
head, leaning over the top of the high-backed chair, always
rises before me as I think of early days. There was no great
warmth or fervour in these daily exercises, but rather a serious
and decorous propriety. They were Hebraistic in their form;
they spoke of Zion and Jerusalem, of the God of Israel, the
God of Jacob, as much as if my grandfather had been a
veritable Jew; and except for the closing phrase, “for the
sake of Thy Son, our Saviour,” might all have been uttered
in Palestine by a well-trained Jew in the time of David.

When prayers were over every morning, the first move of
the day, announced in Aunt Lois’s brief energetic phrases,
was to u get the boys out of the way.” Our dinner was packed
in a small splint basket, and we were started on our way to
the district school, about a mile distant. We had our sleds
with us, — dear winter companions of boys, — not the gaily
painted, genteel little sledges with which Boston boys in
these days enliven the Common, but rude, coarse fabrics, got
up by Caesar in rainy days out of the odds and ends of old
sleigh-runners and such rough boards as he could rudely
fashion with saw and hatchet. Such as they were, they suited
us well, — mine in particular, because upon it I could draw
Tina to school; for already, children as we ■were, things had
naturally settled themselves between us. She was supreme
mistress , and I the too happy slave , only anxious to be per-
mitted to do her bidding. With Harry and me she assumed
the negligent airs of a little empress. She gave us her books
to carry, called on us to tie her shoes, charged us to remember
her errands, got us to learn her lessons for her, and to help

316

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

her out with whatever she had no mind to labour at; and we
were only happy to do it. Harry was the most doting of
brothers, and never could look on Tina in any other light
than as one whom he must at any price save from every care
and every exertion; and as for me, I never dreamed of dis-
puting her supremacy.

One may, perhaps, wonder how a person so extremely
aristocratic in all her ideas of female education as Miss Mehit-
able should commit her little charge to the chance comrade-
ship and unselect society of the district school. But Miss
Mehitable, like many another person who has undertaken the
task of bringing up a human being, found herself reduced to
the doing of a great many things which she had never ex-
pected to do. She prepared for her work in the most thorough
maimer; she read Locke and Milton, and Dr. Gregory’s
“Legacy to his Daughter,” and Mrs. Chapone on the bringing
up of girls , to say nothing of Mrs. Hannah More and all the
other wise people; and, after forming some of the most care-
fully considered and select plans of operation for herself and
her little charge , she was at length driven to the discovery
that in education, as in all other things, people who cannot
do as they would must do as they can. She discovered that
a woman between fifty and sixty years of age , of a peculiar
, nature , and with very fixed , set habits , could not undertake
to be the sole companion and educator of a lively, wilful,
spirited little pilgrim of mortality, who was as active as a
squirrel, and as inconsequent and uncertain in all her move-
ments as a butterfly.

By some rare good fortune of nature or of grace, she found
her little protegee already able to read w T ith fluency, and a
tolerable mistress of the use of the needle and thimble. Thus
she possessed the key of useful knowledge and of useful fem-

DAILY LIVING IN OLDTOWN.

317

ininc practice. But truth compels us to state that there ap-
peared not the smallest prospect , during the first few weeks
of Miss Mehi table’s educational efforts , that she would ever
make a good use of either. In vain Miss Mehitable had
written a nice card, marking out regular hours for sewing, for
reading, for geography and grammar, with suitable intervals
of amusement; and in vain Miss Tina, with edifying enthusi-
asm, had promised with large eyes and most abundant elo-
quence, and with many overflowing caresses, to be “so good.”
Alas! when it came to carrying out the programme, all
alone, in the old house, Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays,
Thursdays, Fridays, and all days, Tina gaped and nestled,
and lost her thimble and her needle, and was infinite in
excuses, and infinite in wheedling caresses, and arguments,
enforced with flattering kisses, in favour of putting off the
duties now of this hour and now of that, and substituting
something more to her fancy. She had a thousand plans of
her own for each passing hour, and no end of argument and
eloquence to persuade her old friend to follow her ways,-— to
hear her read an old ballad instead of applying herself to her
arithmetic lesson, or listen to her recital of something that
she had just picked out of English history , or let her finish a
drawing that she was just inspired to commence, or spend a
bright, sunny hour in flower-gatherings and rambles by the
brown river-side; whence she would return laden with flowers,
and fill every vase in the old , silent room till it would seem
as if the wilderness literally had blossomed as the rose.
Tina’s knack for the arranging of vases and twining of vines
and sorting of wild-flowers amounted to a species of genius;
and, as it was something of which Miss Mehitable had not the
slightest comprehension, the child took the lead in this matter
with a confident assurance. And, after all, the effect was so
cheerful and so delightful, that Miss Mehitable could not find

Digitized by Google

318

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

it in her heart to call to the mind of the little wood-fairy how
many hours these cheerful decorations had cost.

Thus poor Miss Mehitable found herself daily being drawn,
by the leash that held this gay bird, into all sorts of unseemly
gyrations and wanderings , instead of using it to tether the
bird to her own well-considered purposes. She could not
deny that the child was making her old days pass in a very
amusing manner, and it was so much easier to follow the
lively little sprite in all her airy ways and caprices , seeing
her lively and spirited and happy, than to watch the ennui and
the yawns and the restlessness that came over her with every
effort to conform to the strict letter of the programme , that
good Miss Mehitable was always yielding. Every night she
went to bed with an unquiet conscience, sensible that, though
she had had an entertaining day , she had been letting Tina
govern her, instead of governing Tina.

Over that grave supposed necessity of governing Tina, this
excellent woman groaned in spirit on many a night after the
little wheedling tongue had become silent, and the bright,
deluding eyes had gone down under their fringy lashes.
“The fact is,” said the sad old woman, “Miss Asphyxia
spoke the truth. It is a fact, I am not fit to bring up a child.
She does rule over me, just as she said she would, and I’m a
poor old fool; but then, what am I to do? She is so bright
and sweet and pretty , and I’m a queer-looking , dry , odd old
woman, with nobody to love me if she doesn’t. If I cross her
and tie her to rules, and am severe with her, she won’t love
me, and I am too selfish to risk that. Besides, only think
what came of using severe measures with poor Emily ! People
can be spoilt by severity just as much as by indulgence , and
more hopelessly. But what shall I do?”

Miss Mehitable at first had some hope of supporting and
backing up the weaknesses of her own heart by having re-

DAILY LIVING IN OLDTOWN.

319

course to Polly’s well-known energy. Polly was a veritable
dragon of education , and strong in the most efficient articles
of faith. Children must have their wills broken , as she ex-
pressed it, “short off;” they must mind the very first time
you speak ; they must be kept under and made to go accord-
ing to rule, and, if they swerved, Polly recommended mea-
sures of most sanguinary severity.

But somehow or other Tina had contrived to throw over
this grimmest and most Calvinistic of virgins the glamour of
her presence, so that she ruled, reigned, and predominated in
the most awful sanctuaries of Polly’s kitchen, with a fearfully
unconcerned and negligent freedom. She dared to peep into
her yeast-jug in the very moment of projection, and to pinch
off from her downy puffs of newly raised bread , sly morsels
for her own cooking experiments; she picked from Polly’s
very hand the raisins which the good woman was stoning for
the most awfully sacred election cake, and resolutely persisted
in hanging on her chair and chattering in her ear during the
evolution of high culinary mysteries with which the Eleu-
sinian, or any other heathen trumperies of old, were not to
be named. Hadn’t the receipt for election cake been in the
family for one hundred years? and was not Polly the sacred
ark and tabernacle in which that divine secret resided?
Even Miss Mehitable had always been politely requested to
step out of the kitchen when Polly was composing her mind
for this serious work , but yet Tina neglected her geography
and sewing to be present, chattered all the time, as Polly
remarked, like a grist-mill, tasted the sugar and spices, and
helped herself at intervals to the savoury composition as it was
gradually being put together, announcing her opinions, and
giving Polly her advice , with an effrontery to which Polly’s
submission was something appalling.

It really used to seem to Miss Mehitable, as she listened to

320

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

Polly’s dissonant shrieks of laughter from the kitchen , as if
that venerable old girl must be slightly intoxicated. Polly’s
laughter was in truth something quite formidable. All the
organs in her which would usually be employed in this exer-
cise were so rusty for want of use , so choked up with theo-
logical dust and debits , that when brought into exercise they
had a wild, grating, dissonant sound, rather calculated to
alarm. Miss Mehitable really wondered if this could be the
same Polly of whom she herself stood in a certain secret awe,
whose premises she never invaded , and whose will over and
about her had been always done instead of her own; but if
she ventured to open the kitchen door and recall Tina, she
was sure to be vigorously snubbed by Polly, who walked over
all her own precepts and maxims in the most shameless and
astonishing manner.

Polly, however, made up for her own compliances by
heaping up censures on poor Miss Mehitable when Tina had
gone to bed at night. When the bright eyes were fairly closed,
and the little bewitching voice hushed in sleep, Polly’s con-
science awoke like an armed man, and she atoned for her
own sins of compliance and indulgence by stringently ad-
monishing Miss Mehitable that she must be more particular
about that child, and not let her get her own head so much, —
most unblushingly ignoring her own share in abetting her
transgressions , and covering her own especial sins under the
declaration that “she never had undertaken to bring the child
up, — she had to get along with her the best way she could, —
but the child never would make anything if she was let to go
on so.” Yet, in any particular case that arose, Polly was
always sure to go over to Tina’s side and back her usurpa-
tions.

For example, it is to be confessed that Tina never could
or would be got to bed at those hours which are universally ad-

DAILY LIVING IN OLDTOWN.

1

mitted to be canonical for well brought-up children. As
night drew on, the little one’s tongue ran w r ith increasing
fluency, and her powers of entertainment waxed more dizzy
and dazzling; and so, oftentimes as the drizzling, freezing
night shut in, and the wind piped and howled lonesomely
round the corners of the dusky old mansion, neither of the
two forlorn women could find it in her heart to extinguish
the little cheerful candle of their dwelling in bed; and so she
was to them ballet and opera as she sung and danced,
mimicked the dog, mimicked the cat and the hens and the
tom-turkey, and at last talked and flew about the room like
Aunt Lois, stirred up butter and pshawed like grandma, or
invented imaginary scenes and conversations, or improvised
unheard-of costumes out of strange old things she had rum-
maged out of Miss Mehitable’s dark closets. Neither of the
two worthy women had ever seen the smallest kind of drama-
tic representation, so that Tina’s histrionic powers fascinated
them by touching upon dormant faculties, and seemed more
wonderful for their utter novelty; and more than once, to the
poignant self-reproach of Miss Mehitable, and Polly’s most
moral indignation, nine o’clock struck, in the inevitable tones
of the old family timepiece, before they were well aware what
they were doing. Then Tina would be hustled off to bed,
and Polly would preach Miss Mehitable a strenuous discourse
on the necessity of keeping children to regular hours, inter-
spersed with fragments of quotations from one of her vener-
able father’s early sermons on the Christian bringing up of
households. Polly would grow inexorable as conscience on
these occasions, and when Miss Mehitable humbly pleaded in
extenuation how charming a little creature she was, and what
a pleasant evening she had given, Polly would shake her
head, and declare that the ways of sin were always pleasant
for a time, but at the last it would u bite like a serpent and
Oldtotcn Folks . /.

322

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

sting like an adder;” and when Miss Mehitable, in the most
delicate manner, would insinuate that Polly had been sharing
the forbidden fruit, such as it was, Polly would flare up in
sudden wrath, and declare that “ everything that went wrong
was always laid to her.”

Tn consequence of this , though Miss Mehitable found the
first few weeks with her little charge altogether the gayest
and brightest that had diversified her dreary life , yet there
was a bitter sense of self-condemnation and perplexity with it
all. One day she opened her mind to my grandmother.

“Laws a massy! don’t try to teach her yourself,” said that
plain-spoken old individual, — “send her to school with the
boys. Children have to go in droves. What’s the use of
fussing with ’em all day? let the schoolmaster take a part of
the care. Children have to be got rid of sometimes, and we
come to them all the fresher for having them out of our
sight.”

The consequence was, that Tina rode to school on our
sleds in triumph, and made more fun , and did more mischief,
and learned less, and was more adored and desired, than
any other scholar of us all.

CHAPTER XXIII.

We take a Step up in the World.

One of my most vivid childish remembrances is the length
of our winters, the depth of the snows , the raging fury of the
storms that used to whirl over the old farmhouse, shrieking
and piping and screaming round each angle and corner, and
thundering down the chimney in a way that used to threaten
to topple all down before it.

The one great central kitchen fire was the only means of
warming known in the house , and duly at nine o’clock every

Digitized by Google

WE TAKE A STEP UP IN THE WORLD.

323

night that was raked up, and all the family took their way to
bedchambers that never knew a fire, where the very sheets
and blankets seemed so full of stinging cold air that they
made one’s fingers tingle; and where, after getting into bed,
there was a prolonged shiver , until one’s own internal heat-
giving economy had warmed through the whole icy mass.
Delicate people had these horrors ameliorated by the applica-
tion of a brass warming-pan, —an article of high respect and
repute in those days, which the modern conveniences for
warmth in our houses have entirely banished.

Then came the sleet storms, when the trees bent and
creaked under glittering mail of ice, and every sprig and
spray of any kind of vegetation was reproduced in sparkling
crystals. These were cold days par excellence , when every-
body talked of the weather as something exciting and
tremendous, — when the cider would freeze in the cellar, and
the bread in the milk-room would be like blocks of ice, — when
not a drop of water could be got out of the sealed well , and
the very chimney-back over the raked-up fire would be seen
in the morning sparkling with a rime of frost crystals. How
the sledges used to squeak over the hard snow, and the
breath freeze on the hair, and beard, and woolly comforters
around the necks of the men , as one and another brought in
news of the wonderful, unheard-of excesses of Jack Frost
during the foregone night! There was always something
exhilarating about those extremely cold days, when a very
forest of logs, heaped up and burning in the great chimney,
could not warm the other side of the kitchen; and when
Aunt Lois, standing with her back so near the blaze as to be
uncomfortably warm, yet found her dish-towel freezing in her
hand, while she wiped the teacup drawn from the almost
boiling water. When things got to this point, we little folks
were jolly. It was an excitement, an intoxication; it filled

21 *

324

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

life full of talk. People froze the tips of their noses , their
ears, their toes; we froze our own. Whoever touched a
door-latch incautiously, in the early morning, received a
skinning bite from Jack. The axe, the saw, the hatchet, all
the iron tools, in short, were possessed of a cold devil ready
to snap out at any incautious hand that meddled with him.
What ponderous stalactites of ice used to hang from the
eaves, and hung unmelted days, weeks, and months, dripping ^
a little, perhaps, towards noon, but hardening again as night
came on! and how long all this lasted! To us children it
seemed ages.

Then came April with here and there a sunny day. A
bluebird would be vaguely spoken of as having appeared.
Sam Lawson was usually the first to announce the fact, to
the sharp and sceptical contempt of his helpmeet.

On a shimmering April morning, with a half-mind to be
sunshiny, Sam saw Harry and myself trotting by his door,
and called to us for a bit of gossip.

“Lordy massy, boys, ain’t it pleasant? Why, bless your
soul and body, I do believe spring’s a cornin’, though Hepsy
she won’t believe it,” he said, as he leaned over the fence
contemplatively, with the axe in his hand. U I heard a blue-
bird last week, Jake Marshall and me, when we was goin’
over to Hopkinton to see how Ike Saunders is. You know he
is down with the measles. I went over to offer to sit up with
him. Where be ye goin’ this mornin’?”

“ We’re going to the minister’s. Grandfather isn’t well,
and Lady Lothrop told us to come for some wine.”

“ Jcs’ so,” said Sam. u Wal, now, he orter take something
for his stomach’s sake, Scriptur’ goes in for that. A little
good hot spiced wine, it’s jest the thing; and Ma’am Lothrop
she has the very best. Why, some o’ that ’ere wine o’ hern
come over from England years ago when her fust husband

«

Digitized by Google

WE TAKE A STEP UP IN THE WORLD. 325

«

S

was living; and he was a man that knew where to get his
things. Wal, you mustn’t stop to play; alters remember
when you’re sent on errands not to be a-idlin’ on the road.”
“Sam Lawson, will you split me that oven-wood, or won’t
you?” said a smart, cracking voice, as the door flew open
and Hepsy’s thin face and snapping black eyes appeared , as
she stood with a weird , wiry , sharp-visaged baby exalted on
one shoulder, while in the other hand she shook a dish-cloth.

“Lordy massy, Hepsy, I’m splittin’ as fast as I can.
There, run along, boys; don’t stop to play.”

We ran along, for, truth to say, the vision of Hepsy’s
sharp features always quickened our speed, and we heard the
loud, high-pitched storm of matrimonial objurgation long
after we had left them behind.

Timidly we struck the great knocker, and with due respect
and modesty told our errand to the black doctor of divinity
who opened the door.

“I’ll speak to Missis,” he said; “but this ’ere’s Missis’
great day; it’s Good Friday, and she don’t come out of her
room the whole blessed day.”

“But she sent word that we should come,” we both an-
swered in one voice.

“Well, you jest wait here while I go up and see,” — and
the important messenger creaked up stairs on tiptoe with in-
finite precaution , and knocked at a chamber door.

Now there was something in all tliis reception that was
vaguely solemn and impressive to us. The minister’s house
of itself was a dignified and august place. The minister was
in our minds great and greatly to be feared, and to be had in
reverence of them that were about him. The minister’s wife
was a very great lady, who wore very stiff silks, and rode in
a coach , and had no end of unknown wealth at her control,
so ran the village gossip. And now what this mysterious

Digitized by Google

326

; OLDTOWN POLKS.

Good Friday was, and why the house was so still, and why
the black doctor of divinity tiptoed up stairs so stealthily, and
knocked at her door so timidly, we could not exactly con-
jecture; — it was all of a piece with the general marvellous and
supernatural character of the whole establishment.

We heard above the silvery well-bred tones that marked
Lady Lothrop.

“Tell the children to come up.”

We looked at each other, and each waited a moment for
the other to lead the way; finally I took the lead, and Harry
followed. We entered a bedroom shaded in a sombre gloom
which seemed to our childish eyes mysterious and impressive.
There were three windows in the room, but the shutters were
closed, and the only light that came in was from heart-shaped
apertures in each one. There was in one corner a tall,
solemn-looking, high-post bedstead with heavy crimson
draperies. There were heavy carved bureaus and chairs of
black, solid oak.

At a table covered with dark cloth sat Lady Lothrop,
dressed entirely in black, with a great Book of Common
Prayer spread out before her. The light from the heart-
shaped hole streamed down upon this prayer-book in a sort
of dusky shaft, and I was the more struck and impressed
because it was not an ordinary volume, but a great' folio
bound in parchment, with heavy brass knobs and clasps,
printed in black-letter, of that identical old edition first pre-
pared in King Edward’s time, and appointed to be read in
churches. Its very unusual and antique appearance impressed
me with a kind of awe.

There was at the other end of the room a tall , full-length
mirror, which, as we advanced, duplicated the whole scene,
giving back faithfully the image of the spare figure of Lady
Lothrop, her grave and serious face, and the strange old book

Digitized by Google

WE TAKE A STEP UP IN THE WORLD.

327

over which she seemed to be bending, with a dusky gleam-
ing of crimson draperies in the background.

“Come here, my children,” she said, as we hesitated;
“how is your grandfather?”

“He is not so well to-day; and grandmamma said”

“Yes, yes; I know,” she said, with a gentle little wave
of the hand; “I desired that you might be sent for some
wine ; Pompey shall have it ready for you. But tell me , little
boys, do you know what day this is?”

“It’s Friday, ma’am,” said I, innocently.

“Yes, my child; but do you know what Friday it is?”
she said.

“No, ma’am,” said I, faintly.

“Weil, my child, it is Good Friday; and do you know
why it is called Good Friday?”

“No, ma’am.”

“This is the day when our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ
died on the cross for our salvation; so we call it Good
Friday.”

I must confess that these words struck me with a strange
and blank amazement. That there had been in this world a
personage called “Our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ,” I had
learned from the repetition of His name as the usual ending
of prayers at church and in the family; but the real literal
fact that He had lived on earth had never presented itself
to me in any definite form before; but this solemn and
secluded room, this sombre woman shut out from ail the
ordinary ways of the world , devoting the day to lonely mus-
ing, gave to her words a strange reality.

“When did He die?” I said.

“More than a thousand years ago,” she answered.

Insensibly Harry had pressed forward till he stood in the
shaft of light, which fell upon his golden curls, and his large

328

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

blue eyes now had that wide-open , absorbed expression with
which he always listened to anything of a religious nature,
and, as if speaking involuntarily, he said eagerly, “But He
is not dead. He is living; and we pray to Him.”

“Why, yes, my son,” said Lady Lothrop, turning and
looking with pleased surprise , which became more admiring
as she gazed, — “yes, He rose from the dead.”

“I know. Mother told me all about that. Day after to-
morrow will be Easter- day,’ said Harry; “I remember.”

A bright flash of pleased expression passed over Lady
Lothrop’s face as she said , “ I am glad , my boy, that you at
least have been taught. Tell me, boys,” she said at last,
graciously, “should you like to go with me in my carriage to
Easter Sunday, in Boston?”

Had a good fairy offered to take us on the rainbow to the
palace of the sunset, the offer could not have seemed more
unworldly and dream-like. What Easter Sunday was I had
not the faintest idea, but I felt it to be something vague,
strange , and remotely suggestive of the supernatural.

Hany, however, stood the thing with the simple, solemn,
gentlemanlike way which was habitual with him.

“Thank you, ma’am, I shall be very happy, if grand-
mamma is willing.”

It will be seen that Hany slid into the adoptive familiarity
which made my grandmother his, with the easy good faith of
childhood.

“ Tell your grandmamma if she is willing I shall call for
you in my coach to-morrow,” — and we were graciously dis-
missed.

We ran home in all haste with our bottle of wine, and
burst into the kitchen, communicating our message both at
once to Aunt Lois and Aunt Keziah. The two women looked

✓

Digitized by Google

WE TAKE A STEP UP IN THE WORLD.

329

at each other mysteriously; there was a slight flush on Aunt
Lois’s keen, spare face.

u Well if she’s a mind to do it, Kezy , I don’t see how we
can refuse.”

“Mother never would consent in the world,” said Aunt
Keziah.

“Mother must” said Aunt Lois, with decision. “We can’t
afford to offend Lady Lothrop , with both these boys on our
hands. Besides, now father is sick, what a mercy to have
’em both out of the house for a Sunday!”

Aunt Lois spoke this with an intensive earnestness that
deepened my already strong convictions that we boys were a
daily load upon her life, only endured by a high and pro-
tracted exercise of Christian fortitude.

She rose and tapped briskly into the bedroom where my
grandmother was sitting reading by my grandfather’s bed.
I heard her making some rapid statements in a subdued
imperative tone. There were a few moments of a sort of
suppressed , earnest hum of conversation , and soon we heard
sundry vehement interjections from my grandmother, —
“Good Friday! — Easter! — pish, Lois! — don’t tell me! — old

cast-off rags of the scarlet woman, — nothing else.

0

‘ Abhor the arrant whore of Romo ,

And all her blasphemies;

Drink not of her accursed cup,

Obey not hor decrees.’ ”

“Now, mother, how absurd!” I heard Aunt Lois say.
“ Who’s talking about Rome? I’m sure, if Dr. Lothrop can
allow it, we can. It’s all nonsense to talk so. We don’t
want to offend our minister’s wife; we must do the things
that make for peace ; ” and then the humming went on for a
few moments more and more earnestly , till finally we heard
grandmother break out : —

Digitized by Google

330

OLDTOWN POLKS.

“Well, well, have it your own way, Lois, — you always
did and always will, I suppose. Glad the boys’ll have a
holiday, anyhow. She means well , I dare say, — thinks she’s
doing right.”

I must say that this was a favourite formula with which
my grandmother generally let herself down from the high
platform of her own sharply defined opinions to the level of
Christian charity with her neighbours.

“Who is the whore of Rome?” said Harry to me, confi-
dentially , when we had gone to our room to make ready for
our jaunt the next day.

“Don’t you know?” said I. “Why, it’s the one that
burnt John Rogers, in the Catechism. I can show it to you;”
and , forthwith producing from my small stock of books my
“ New England Primer,” I called his attention to the picture
of Mr. John Rogers in gown and bands, standing in the midst
of a brisk and voluminous coil of fire and smoke, ovei
which an executioner, with a supernatural broadaxe upon his
shoulders , seemed to preside with grim satisfaction. There
was a woman with a baby in her. arms and nine children at
her side, who stood in a row, each head being just a step
lower than the preceding, so that they made a regular flight
of stairs. The artist had represented the mother and all the
children with a sort of round bundle on each of their heads,
of about the same size as the head itself, — a thing which I
always interpreted as a further device of the enemy in putting
stones on their heads to crush them down ; and I pointed it
out to Harry as an aggravating feature of the martyrdom.

“Did the whore of Rome do that?” said Harry, after a
few moments’ reflection.

“ Yes, she did, and it tells about it in the poetry which he
wrote here to his children the night before his execution;”
and forthwith I proceeded to read to Harry that whole

Digitized by Google

WE TAKE A STEP UP IN THE WORLD.

331

poetical production, delighted to find a gap in his education
which I was competent to fill. We were both wrought up
into a highly Protestant state by reading tills.

“Horace,” said Harry, timidly, 11 she wouldn’t like such
things, would she? she is such a good woman.”

“What, Lady Lothrop? of course she’s a good woman;
else she wouldn’t be our minister’s wife.”

“What was grandma talking about?” said Harry.

“Oh, 1 don’t know; grandmother talks about a great
many things,” said I. “At any rate, we shall see Boston,
and I’ve always wanted to see Boston. Only think, Harry,
we shall go in a coach!”

This projected tour to Boston was a glorification of us
children in the eyes of the whole family. To go, on the «
humblest of terms, to Boston , — but to be taken thither in
Lady Lothrop’s coach, to be trotted in magnificently behind
her fat pair of carriage-horses, — that was a good fortune se-
cond only to translation.

Boston lay at an easy three hours’ ride from Oldtown, and
Lady Lothrop had signified to my grandmother that we were
to be called for soon after dinner. We were to spend the
night and the Sunday following at the house of Lady Loth-
rop’s mother, who still kept the old family mansion at the
north end , and Lady Lothrop was graciously pleased to add
that she would keep the children over Easter Monday, to
show them Boston. Faithful old soul , she never omitted the
opportunity of reminding the gainsaying community among
whom her lot was cast, of the solemn days of her church, and
for one I have remembered Easter Sunday and Monday to
this day.

Our good fortune received its crowning stroke in our eyes
when, running over to Miss Mehitable’s with the news, we

Digitized by Google

332

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

found that Lady Lothrop had considerately included Tina in
the invitation.

“Well, she must like children better than I do,” was Aunt
Lois’s comment upon the fact, when we announced it. “ Now,
boys, mind and behave yourselves like young gentlemen,”
she added, “for you are going to one of the oldest families of
Boston, among real genteel people.”

“They’re Tories, Lois,” put in Aunt Keziah, apprehen-
sively.

“Well, what of that? that thing’s over and gone now,”
said Aunt Lois, “and nobody lays it up against the Kitterys,
and everybody knows they were in the very first circles in
Boston before the war, and connected with the highest
people in England, so it was quite natural they should be
Tories.”

“I shouldn’t wonder if Lady Widgery should be there,”
said Aunt Keziah, musingly, as she twitched her yarn; “she
always used to come to Boston about this time o’ the year.”
“Very likely she will,” said my mother. “What relation
is she to Lady Lothrop?”

“Why, bless me, don’t you know?” said Aunt Lois.
“Why, she was Polly Steadman, and sister to old Ma’am
Kittery’s husband’s first wife. She was second wife to Sir
Thomas; his first wife was one of the Keatons of Penshurst,
in England; she died while Sir Thomas was in the custom-
house; she was a poor, sickly thing. Polly was a great
beauty in her day. People said he admired her rather too
much before his wife died, but I don’t know how that was.”
“I wonder what folks want to say such things for,” quoth
my grandmother. “I hate backbiters, for my part.”

“We aren’t backbiting, mother. I only said how the story
ran. It was years ago , and poor Sir Thomas is in his grave
long ago.”

Digitized by Google

WE TAKE A STEP UP IN THE WOULD.

333

“Then you might let him rest there,” said my grand-
mother. “ Lady Widgery was a pleasant-spoken woman, 1
remember.”

“She’s quite an invalid now, I heard,” said Aunt Lois.
“Our Bill was calling at the Kittery’s the other day, and
Miss Deborah Kittcry spoke of expecting Lady Widgery.
The Kitterys have been very polite to Bill; they’ve invited
him there to dinner once or twice this winter. That was one
reason why I thought we ought to be careful how we treat
Lady Lothrop’s invitation. It’s entirely through her influence
that Bill gets these attentions.”

“I don’t know about their being the best thing for him,”
said my grandmother, doubtfully.

u Mother, how can you talk so? What can be better than
for a young man to have the run of good families in Boston?”
said Aunt Lois.

“I’d rather see him have intimacy with one godly minister
of old times,” said my grandmother.

“Well, that’s what Bill isn’t likely to do,” quoth Aunt
Lois, with a slight shade of impatience. “We must take
boys as we find ’em.”

“I haven’t anything against Tories or Episcopalians,” said
my grandmother; “but they ain’t our sort of folks. I dare
say they mean as well as they know how.”

“Miss Mehitable visits the Kitterys when she is in Bos-
ton,” said Aunt Lois, “and thinks everything of them. She
says that Deborah Kittery is a very smart intelligent woman
— a woman of a very strong mind.”

“I dare say they’re well enough,” said my grandmother.
“I’m sure I wish ’em well with all my heart.”

“Now, Horace,” said Aunt Lois, ‘ be careful you don’t
sniff, and be sure and wipe your shoes on the mat when you
come in , and never on any account speak a word unless you

Digitized by Google

334

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

are spoken to. Little boys should be seen , and not heard
and be very careful you never touch anything you see. It is
very good of Lady Lothrop to be willing to take all the
trouble of having you with her, and you must make her just
as little as possible.”

I mentally resolved to reduce myself to a nonentity, to go
out of existence , as it were , to be nobody and nowhere , if
only I might escape making trouble.

“As to Harry, he is always a good, quiet boy, and never
touches things, or forgets to wipe his shoes,” said my aunt.
“I’m sure he will behave himself.”

My mother coloured slightly at this undisguised partiality
for Harry, but she was too much under Aunt Lois’s discipline
to venture a word.

“Lordy massy, Mis’ Badger, how do ye all do?” said Sam
Lawson, this moment appearing at the kitchen door. “ I saw '
your winders so bright, I thought I’d jest look in and ask
after the Deacon. I ben into Miss Mehitable’s and there’s
Polly, she telled me about the chillen goin’ to Boston to-
morrow. Tiny, she’s jest flying round and round like a
lightning-bug, most out of her head, she’s so tickled; and
Polly, she was a i’nin’ up her white aprons to get her up
smart. Polly, she says it’s all pagan flummery about Easter,
but she’s glad the chillen are goin’ to have the holiday.” And
with this Sam Lawson seated himself on his usual evening
roost in the corner, next to black Ca3sar, and we both came
and stood by his knee.

“Wal, boys, now you’re goin’ among real , old-fashioned
gentility. Them Kitterys used to hold their heads ’mazin’
high afore the war, and they’ve managed by hook and crook
to hold on to most what they got, and now by-gones is by-
gones. But I believe they don’t go out much, or go into com-

1

*

WE TAKE A STEP UP IN THE WORLD. 335

pany. Old Ma’am Kittery, she's kind o’ broke up about her
son that was killed at the Delaware.”

“Fighting on the wrong side, poor woman,” said my
grandmother. “Well, I s’pose he thought he was doing
right.”

“Yes, yes,” said Sam, “there’s all sorts o’ folks go to
make up a world , and, lordy massy, we mustn’t be hard on
nobody; can’t ’spect everybody to be right all round; it’s
what I tell Polly when she sniffs at Lady Lothrop keepin’
Christmas and Easter and sieli. ‘Lordy massy, Polly,’ says
I, ‘if she reads her Bible, and ’s good to the poor, and don’t
speak evil o’ nobody, why, let her have her Easter; what’s
the harm ou’t?’ But lordy massy, bless your soul and body!
there’s no kind o’ use talking to Polly. She fumed away
there, over her i’nin’ table; she didn’t believe in folks that
read their prayers out o’ books; and then she had it all over
about them tew thousan’ ministers that was turned out o’ the
church in one day in old King Charles’s time. Now, rally,
Mis’ Badger, I don’t see why Lady Lothrop should be held
’sponsible for that ’ere, if she is ’Piscopalian.”

“Well, well,” said my grandmother, “they did turn out
the very best men in England, but the Lord took ’em for seed
to plant America with. But no wonder we feel it; burnt
children dread the fire. I’ve nothing against Lady Lothrop,
and I don’t wish evil to the Episcopalians , nor to the Tories.
There’s good folks among ’em all, and ‘the Lord knoweth
them that are His.’ But I do hope, Horace, that, when you
get to Boston, you will go out on to Copps Hill, and see the
graves of the saints. There are the men that I want my
children to remember. You come here, and let me read you
about them in my ‘Magnaly’* here.” And with this my

* Dr, Cotton Mather’s “Magnalia.”

Digitized by Google

336

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

grandmother produced her well-worn copy ; and , to say the
truth, we were never tired of hearing what there was in it.
What legends, wonderful and stirring, of the solemn old for-
est life — of fights with the Indians, and thrilling adventures,
and captivities, and distresses — of encounters with panthers
and serpents, and other wild beasts, which made our very
hair stand on end. Then there were the weird witch-stories,
so wonderfully attested; and how Mr. Peter So-and-so did
visibly see, when crossing a river, a cat’s head swimming in
front of the boat, and the tail of the same following behind;
and how worthy people had been badgered and harassed by
a sudden friskiness in all their household belongings, in a
manner not unknown in our modern days. Of all these fas-
cinating legends my grandmother was a willing communica-
tor, and had, to match them, numbers of corresponding ones
from her own personal observation and experience; and some-
times Sam Lawson would chime in with long-winded legends,
which, being told by flickering firelight, with the wind
rumbling and tumbling down the great chimney, or shrieking
and yelling and piping around every corner of the house, like
an army of fiends trying with tooth and claw to get in upon
us, had power to send cold chills down our backs in the most
charming manner.

For my part, I had not the slightest fear of the supernatu-
ral; it was to me only a delightful stimulant, just crisping the
surface of my mind with a pleasing horror. I had not any
doubt of the stories of apparitions related by Dr. Cotton , be-
cause I had seen so many of them, myself; and I did not doubt
that many of the witnesses who testified in these cases really
did see what they said they saw, as plainly as I have seen
similar appearances. The consideration of the fact that there
really are people in whose lives such phenomena are of fre-
quent occurrence seems to have been entirely left out of the

Digitized by Google

337

WE TAKE A STEP irp IN THE WORLD.

#

minds of those who have endeavoured to explain that dark
passage in our history.

In my maturer years I looked upon this peculiarity as
something resulting from a physical idiosyncrasy, and I have
supposed that such affections may become at times epidemics
in communities, as well as any other affection of the brain
and nervous system. Whether the things thus discerned
have an objective reality or not, has been one of those ques-
tions at which, all my life, the interrogation point has stood
unerased.

On this evening, however, my grandmother thought fit to
edify us by copious extracts from “The Second Part, en-
tituled Sepher-Jearim , *. e., Liber Detnn Timentium; or, Dead
Abels; — yet speaking and spoken of.”

The lives of several of these “Dead Abels” were her
favourite reading, and to-night she designed especially to for-
tify our minds with their biographies; so she gave us short
dips and extracts here and there from several of them, as, for
example: u Janus Nov.-Anglicus ; or, the Life of Mr. Samuel
Higginson;” — “ Cadmus Americanus; or, Life of Mr. Charles
Chauncey;” — “ Cygnea Cantio ; or, The Death of Mr. John
Avery;” — “ Fulgentius; or, The Life of Mr. Richard Mather;”
and “Elisha's Bones; or, Life of Mr. Henry Whitefield.”

These Latin titles stimulated my imagination like the
sound of a trumpet, and I looked them out diligently in my
father’s great dictionary, and sometimes astonished my grand-
mother by telling her what they meant.

In fact, I was sent to bed that night thoroughly fortified
against all seductions of the gay and worldly society into
which I was about to be precipitated; and my reader will see
that there was need enough of this preparation.

All these various conversations in regard to differences of
religion went on before us children with the freedom with

22

Oldtotrn Folks . L

338 " OLDTOWN FOLKS.

which older people generally allow themselves to go on in the
presence of the little non-combatants of life. In those days,
when utter silence and reserve in the presence of elders was
so forcibly inculcated as one of the leading virtues of child-
hood , there was little calculation made for the effect of such
words on the childish mind. With me it was a perfect hazy
mist of wonder and bewilderment; and I went to sleep and
dreamed that John Rogers was burning Lady Lothrop at the
stake, and Polly, as executioner, presided with a great broad-
axe over her shoulder, while grandmother, with nine small
children, all with stone bundles on their heads, assisted at
the ceremony.

Our ride to Boston was performed in a most proper and
edifying manner. Lady Lothrop sat erect and gracious on
the back seat, and placed Harry, for whom she seemed to
have conceived a special affection, by her side. Tina was
perched on the knee of my lady’s maid, a starched, prim
woman who had grown up and dried in all the most sacred
and sanctified essences of genteel propriety. She was the
very crispness of old-time decorum, brought up to order her-
self lowly and reverently to all her betters , and with a secret
conviction that, aside from Lady Lothrop, the whole of the
Oldtown population were rather low Dissenters, whom she
was required by the rules of Christian propriety to be kind
to. To her master, as having been honoured with the august
favour of her mistress’s hand, she looked up with respect,
but her highest mark of approbation was in the oft-repeated
burst which came from her heart in moments of confidential
enthusiasm, — “Ah, ma’am! depend upon it, master is a
Churchman in his heart. If ’e ’ad only ’ad the good fortune
to be born in Hengland , ’e would ’ave been a bishop ! ”

Tina had been talked to and schooled rigorously by Miss
Mehitable as to propriety of manner during this ride ; and, as

Digitized by Google

WE TAKE A STEP UP IN THE WORLD.

339

Miss Mehitable well knew what a chatterbox she was, she
exacted from her a solemn promise that she would only speak
when she was spoken to. Being perched in Mrs. Margery’s
lap , she felt still further the stringent and binding power of
that atmosphere of frosty decorum which encircled this im-
maculate waiting-maid. A more well-bred, inoffensive, reve-
rential little trio never surrounded a lady -patroness; and as
Lady Lothrop was not much of a talker, and, being a child-
less woman, had none of those little arts of drawing out
children which the maternal instinct alone teaches, our ride,
though undoubtedly a matter of great enjoyment, was an en-
joyment of a serious and even awful character. Lady Lothrop
addressed a few kind inquiries to each one of us in turn , to
which we each of us replied , and then the conversation fell
into the hands of Mrs. Margery, and consisted mainly in pre-
cise details as to where and how she had packed her mistress’s
Sunday cap and velvet dress ; in doing which she evinced the
great fluency and fertility of language with which women of
her class are gifted on the one subject of their souls. Mrs.
Margery felt as if the Sunday cap of the only supporter of
the true Church in the dark and heathen parish of Oldtown
was a subject not to be lightly or unadvisedly considered;
and, therefore, she told at great length how she had intended
to pack it first all together, — how she had altered her mind
and taken off the bow , and packed that in a little box by it-
self, and laid the strings out flat in the box, — what difficulties
had met her in folding the velvet dress, — and how she had at
first laid it on top of the trunk , but had decided at last that
the black lutestring might go on top of that , because it was
so much lighter, &c., &e., &c.

Lady Lothrop was so much accustomed to this species of
monologue , that it is quite doubtful if she heard a word of
it; but poor Tina, who felt within herself whole worlds of

22 *

340

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

things to say, from the various objects upon the road, of which
she was dying to talk and ask questions, wriggled and twisted
upon Mrs. Margery’s knee, and finally gave utterance to her
pent-up feelings in deep sighs.

“ What’s the matter, little dear?” said Lady Lothrop.

“Oh dear! I was just wishing I could go to church.”

“Well, you are going to-morrow, dear.”

“I just wish I could go now to say one prayer.”

“And what is that, my dear?”

“I just want to say, ‘0 Lord! open thou my lips,’ said
Tina, with effusion.

Lady Lothrop smiled with an air of innocent surprise, and
Mrs. Margery winked over the little head.

“I’m so tired of not talking!” said Tina, pathetically;
“but I promised MissMehitable I wouldn’t speak unless I was
spoken to ,” she added , with an air of virtuous resolution.

“Why, my little dear, you may talk,” said Lady Lothrop.
“It won’t disturb me at all. Tell us now about anything that
interests you.”

“Oh, thank you ever so much,” said Tina; and from this
moment, as a little elfin butterfly bursts from a cold, gray
chrysalis, Tina rattled and chattered and sparkled, and went
on with verve and gusto that quite waked us all up. Lady
Lothrop and Mrs. Margery soon found themselves laughing
with a heartiness which surprised them; and, the icy chains
of silence being once broken, we all talked, almost forgetting
in whose presence we were. Lady Lothrop looked from one
to another in a sort of pleased and innocent surprise. Her
still, childless, decorous life covered and concealed many
mute feminine instincts which now rose at the voice and
touch of childhood; and sometimes in the course of our
gambols she would sigh, perhaps thinking of her own child-
less hearth.

Digitized by Google

WE BEHOLD GRANDEUR.

341

CHAPTER XXIV.

Wo behold Grandeur.

It was just at dusk that our carriage stood before the
door of a respectable mansion at the north end of Boston.

I remember our alighting and passing through a wide
hall with a dark oaken staircase , into a low-studded parlour,
lighted by the blaze of a fire of hickory logs , which threw
out tongues of yellow flame, and winked at itself with a
thousand fanciful flashes, in the crinkles and angles of a
singularly high and mighty pair of brass andirons.

A lovely, peaceful old lady, whose silvery white hair and
black dress were the most striking features of the picture,
kissed Lady Lothrop, and then came to us with a perfect
outgush of motherly kindness. “Why, the poor little dears!
the little darlings!” she said, as she began with her trem-
bling fingers to undo Tina’s bonnet-strings. “Did they want
to come to Boston and see the great city? Well, they should.
They must be cold ; there , put them close by the fire , and
grandma will get them a nice cake pretty soon. Here,
I’ll hold the little lady,” she said, as she put Tina on her
knee.

The child nestled her head down on her bosom as lovingly
and confidingly as if she had known her all her days. “ Poor
babe!” said the old lady to Lady Lothrop, “who could have
had a heart to desert such a child? And this is the boy,” she
said, drawing Harry to her and looking tenderly at him.
“Well, a father of the fatherless is God in his holy habita-
tion.” There was something even grand about the fervour
of this sentence as she uttered it, and Tina put up her
hand with a caressing gesture around the withered old
neck.

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

342

“ Debby, get these poor children a cake,” said the lady to
a brisk, energetic, rather high-stepping individual, who now
entered the apartment.

“Come now, mother, do let it rest till supper-time. If we
let you alone, you would murder all the children in your
neighbourhood with cake and sugar-plums-, you’d be as bad
as King Herod.”

Miss Debby was a well-preserved, up-and-down , positive,
cheery, sprightly maiden lady of an age lying -somewhere in
the indeterminate region between forty and sixty. There
was a positive , brusque way about all her movements , and
she advanced to the fire, rearranged the wood, picked up
stray brands , and whisked up the coals with a brush , and
then , seating herself bolt upright , took up the business of
making our acquaintance in the most precise and systematic
manner.

“ So this is Master Horace Holyoke. How do you do, sir? ”

As previously directed, I made my best bow with anxious
politeness.

“And this is Master Harry Percival, is it?” Harry did
the same.

“And this,” she added, turning to Tina, “is Miss Tina
Percival, I understand? Well, we are very happy to see
good little children in this house always.” There was a rather
severe emphasis on the good , which, together with the some-
what martial and disciplinary air which invested all Miss
Deborah’s words and actions , was calculated to strike chil-
dren with a wholesome awe.

Our resolution “to be very good indeed” received an im-
mediate accession of strength. At this moment a serving-
maid appeared at the door, and, with eyes cast down, and a
stiff respectful courtesy, conveyed the information , “ If you
please, ma’am, tea is ready.”

Digitized by Google

WE BEHOLD GRANDEUR.

343

This humble, self-abased figure — the utter air of self-
abnegation with which the domestic seemed to intimate that,
unless her mistress pleased", tea was not ready, and that
everything in creation was to be either ready or not read)'
according to her sovereign will and good pleasure — was to us
children a new lesson in decorum.

“Go tell Lady Widgery that tea is served,” said Miss
Deborah, in a loud, resounding voice. “Tell her that we
will wait her ladyship’s convenience.”

The humble serving-maid courtesied, and closed the door
softy with reverential awe. On the whole, the impression
upoL our minds was deeply solemn; we were about to see her
ladydiip.

Lidy Widgery was the last rose of summer of the de-
parted aristocracy. Lady Lotlirop’s title was only by
courtesy; but Sir Thomas Widgery was a live baronet;
and as there were to be no more of these splendid dis-
pensations in America, one may fancy the tenderness
with which old Tory families cherished the last lingering
remnants.

The coor was soon opened again, and a bundle of black
silk appeared, with a pale, thin face looking out of it. There
was to be seen the glitter of a pair of sharp, black eyes, and
the shimmer of a thin white hand with a diamond ring upon
it. These were the items that made up Lady Widgery , as
she dawned upon our childish vision.

Lest the reader should conceive any false hopes or im-
pressions , I may as well say that it turned out , on further
acquaintance, that these items were about all there was of
Lady Widgery. It was one of the cases where nature had
picked up a very indifferent and commonplace soul, and shut
it up in a very intelligent-looking body. From her youth up,
Lady Widgerys principal attraction consisted in looking as

1

344 4 OLDTOWN FOLKS.

K

if there was a great deal more in her than there really was
Her eyes were sparkling and bright, and had a habit o:
looking at things in this world with keen, shrewd glances , as
if she were thinking about them to some purpose , which she

V

never was. Sometimes they were tender and beseeching,
and led her distracted admirers to feel as if she were meltiag
with emotions that she never dreamed of. Thus Lady
Widgery had always been rushed for and contended for by
the other sex; and one husband had hardly time to be cold
in his grave before the air was filled with the rivalry of can-
didates to her hand; and after all, the beautiful little hoax
had nothing for it but her attractive soul- case. In her old
age she still looked elegant, shrewd, and keen, and undeniably
highbred, and carried about her the prestige of rani and
beauty. Otherwise she was a little dry bundle of old pre-
judices, of faded recollections of past conquests and gaieties,
and weakly concerped about her own health , which , in her
view, and that of everybody about her, appeared a most
sacred subject. She had a somewhat entertaining manner of
rehearsing the gossip and scandals of the last forty years,
and was , so far as such a person could be , religions : that is
to say, she kept all the feasts and fasts of the Church
scrupulously. She had , in a weakly way , a sense of some
responsibility in this matter, because she was Ladt Widgery,
and because infidelity was prevailing in the land, and it be-
came Lady Widgery, to cast her influence agains; it. There-
fore it was that , even at the risk of her precious life , as she
thought, she had felt it imperative to come to Boston to
celebrate Easter Sunday.

When she entered the room, there was an immediate
bustle of welcome. Lady Lothrop ran up to her, saluting
her with an appearance of great fondness, mingled, I thought,
with a sort of extreme deference. Miss Deborah was pressing

I

I

I

Digitized by Google

WE BEHOLD C4RANDEUR. 345

• ♦
in her attentions. “Will you sit a moment before tea to get

your feet warm, or will you go out at once? The dining-
room is quite warm.”

Lady Widgery’s feet 'were quite warm, and everybody
was so glad to hear it, that we were filled with wonder.

Then she turned and fixed her keen , dark eyes on us , as
if she were reading our very destiny, and asked who we were.
We were all presented circumstantially, and the brilliant
eyes ‘seemed to look through us shrewdly, as we made our
bows and courtesies. One would have thought that she
was studying us with a deep interest, which was not the
case.

We were now marshalled out to the tea-table, where we
children had our plates put in a row together, and were waited
on with obsequious civility by Mrs. Margery and another
equally starched and decorous female, who was the attendant
of Lady Widgery. We stood at our places a moment, while
£he lovely old lady, raising her trembling hand, pronounced
the words of the customary grace: “For what we are now
about to receive, the Lord make us truly thankful.” Her
voice trembled as she spoke , and somehow the impression of
fragility and sanctity that she made on me, awoke in me a
sort of tender awe. When the blessing was over, the maids
seated us, and I had leisure to notice the entirely new scene
about me.

It was all conducted with an inexpressible stateliness of
propriety, and , in an undefined way, the impression was pro-
duced upon my mind that the frail, shivery, rather thin and
withered little being, enveloped in a tangle of black silk
wraps, was something inexpressibly sacred and sublime. Miss
Deborah waited on her constantly, pressingly, energetically ;
and the dear, sweet old white-haired lady tended her with
obsequiousness, which, like everything else that she did, was

\

Digitized by Google

346

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

lost in lovingness •, and Lady Lothrop , to me the most awe-
inspiring of the female race , paled her ineffectual fires , and
bowed her sacred head to the rustling little black silk bundle,
in a way that made me inwardly wonder. The whole scene
was so different from the wide , rough , noisy , free-and-easy
democracy of my grandmother’s kitchen , that I felt crusted
all over with an indefinite stiffness of embarrassment, as if I
had been dipped in an alum-bath. At the head of the table
there was an old silver tea-urn, looking heavy enough to
have the weight of whole generations in it, into which,
at the moment of sitting down, a serious-visaged waiting-
maid dropped a red-hot weight, and forthwith the noise of
a violent boiling arose. We little folks looked at each other
inquiringly, but said nothing. All was to us like an en-
chanted palace. The great, mysterious tea-urn, the chased
silver tea-caddy, the precise and well-considered movements
of Miss Deborah as she rinsed the old embossed silver tea-
pots in the boiling water , the India-china cups and platesj^
painted with the family initials and family crest, all were to
us solemn signs and symbols of that upper table-land of
gentility into which we were forewarned by Aunt Lois we
were to enter.

“There,” said Miss Deborah, with emphasis, as she poured
and handed to Lady Widgery a cup of tea, — “there’s some
of the tea that my brother saved at the time of that disgrace-
ful Boston riot, when Boston Harbour was floating with tea-
chests. His cargo was rifled in the most scandalous manner,
but he went out in a boat and saved some at the risk of his
life.”

Now my most sacred and enthusiastic remembrance was
of the glow of patriotic fervour with which , seated on my
grandfather’s knee , I had heard the particulars of that event
at a time when names and dates and dress , and time , place,

WE BEHOLD GRANDEUR.

347

and circumstance, had all the life and vividness of a recent
transaction. I cannot describe the clarion tones in which
Miss Deborah rung out the word disgraceful, in connexion
with an event which had always set my blood boiling with
pride and patriotism. Now, as if convicted of sheep-stealing,
I felt myself getting red to the very tips of my ears.

“It was a shameful proceeding,” sighed Lady Widgery, in
her pretty, high-bred tones, as she pensively stirred the
amber fluid in her tea-cup. “I never saw Sir Thomas so
indignant at anything in all my life , and I’m sure it gave me
a sick-headache for three days, so that I had to stay shut up
in a dark room, and couldn’t keep the least thing on my
stomach. What a mysterious providence it is that such con-
duct should be suffered to lead to success!”

“Well,” said Lady Lothrop, sipping her tea on the other
side, “clouds and darkness are about the Divine dispensa-
tions : but let us hope it will be all finally overruled for the
best.”

“Oh, come!” said Miss Debby, giving a cheerful, victorious
crow of defiance from behind her tea-pots. “ Dorothy will
be down on us with the tip-end of one of her husband’s ser-
mons, of course. Having married a Continental Congress
parson, she has to say the best she can*, but I, Deborah
Kittery , who was never yet in bondage to any man , shall be
free to have my say to the end of my days , and I do say that
the Continental Congress is an abomination in the land , and
the leaders of it, if justice had been done, they would all have
been hanged high as Haman; and that there is one house in
old Boston, at the north end, and not far from the spot where
we have the honour to be, where King George now reigns
as much as ever he did , and where law and order prevail in
spite of General Washington and Mrs. Martha, with her court
and train. It puts me out of all manner of patience to read

348

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

the papers, — receptions to ’em here , there , and everywhere ;
— I should like to give ’em a reception.”

“Come, come, Deborah, my child, you must be patient,”
said the old lady. “ The Lord’s ways are not as our ways.
He knows what is best.”

“I daresay He does, mother; but we know He does let
wickedness triumph to an awful extent. I think myself He’s
given this country up.”

“Let us hope not,” said the mother, fervently.

“Just look at it,” said Miss Deborah. “Has not this
miserable rebellion broken up the true Church in this country
just as it was getting a foothold? has it not shaken hands
with French infidelity? Thomas Jefferson is a scoffing in-
fidel, and he drafted their old Declaration of Independence,
which, I will say, is the most abominable and blasphemous
document that ever sinners dared to sign.”

“But General Washington was a Churchman,” said Lady
Widgery, “and they were always very careful about keeping
the feasts and fasts. Why, I remember, in the old times, I
have been there to Easter holidays, and we had a splendid
ball.”

“Well, then, if he was in the true Church, so much the
worse for him,” said Miss Deborah. “There is some excuse
for men of Puritan families, because their ancestors were
schismatics and disorganisers to begin with, and came over
here because they didn’t like to submit to lawful government.
For my part, I have always been ashamed of having been
born here. If I’d been consulted, I should have given my
voice against it.”

“Debby, child, how you do talk!” said the old lady.

“Well, mother, what can I do but talk? and it’s a pity if
I shouldn’t be allowed to do that. If I had been a man I’d
have fought; and if I could have my way now, I’d go back

WE BEHOLD GRANDEUR.

349

to England and live, where there’s some religion and some
government.”

“I don’t see,” said the old lady, “but people are doing
pretty well under the new government.”

“Indeed, mother; how can you know anything about it?
There’s a perfect reign of infidelity and immorality begun.
Why, look here, in Boston and Cambridge things are going
just as you might think they would. The college fellows
call themselves D’Alembert, Rousseau, Voltaire, and other
French heathen names; and there’s Ellery Davenport! just
look at him, — came straight down from generations of Puritan
ministers, and hasn’t half as much religion as my cat there;
for Tom does know how to order himself lowly and reverently
to all his betters.”

Here there was such a burst of pleading feminine elo-
quence on all hands as showed that general interest which
often pervades the female breast for some bright, naughty,
wicked, prodigal son. Lady Widgery and old Mrs. Kittery
and Lady Lothrop all spoke at once. “Indeed, Miss De-
borah,” — “Come, come, Debby,” — “You are too bad; he
goes to church with us sometimes.”

“To church, does he?” said Miss Debby, with a toss;
“and what does he go for? Simply to ogle the girls.”

“We should be charitable in our judgments ,” said Lady
Widgery.

“Especially of handsome young men,” said Miss Debby,
with strong irony. “You all know he doesn’t believe as much
as a heathen. They say he reads and speaks French like a
native, and that’s all I want to know of anybody. I’ve no
opinion of such people; a good honest Christian has no
occasion to go out of his own language , and when he does,
you may be pretty sure it’s for no good.”

350

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

“Oh, come now, Deborah, you are too sweeping alto-
gether,” said Lady Lothrop; “French is, of course, an
elegant accomplishment.”

“ I never saw any good of the French language , for my
part, I must confess,” said Miss Debby, “nor, for that matter,
of the French nation either; they eat frogs, and break the
Sabbath, and are as immoral as the old Canaanites. It’s just
exactly like them to aid and abet this unrighteous rebellion.
They always hated England, and they take delight in
massacres and rebellions , and every kind of mischief, ever
since the massacre of St. Bartholomew. Well, well, we shall
see what’ll come of these ungodly, levelling principles in time.
‘All men created free and equal,’ forsooth. Just think of
that! clearly against the Church catechism.”

“Of course that is infidelity,” said Lady Widgery, con-
fidently. “ Sir Thomas used to say it was the effect on the
lower classes he dreaded. You see these lower classes are
something dreadful; and what’s to keep them down if it
isn’t religion? as Sir Thomas used to say when he always
would go to church Sundays. He felt such a responsibility.”

“Well,” said Miss Deborah, “you’ll see. I predict we
shall see the time when your butcher, and your baker, and
your candlestick-maker will come into your parlour and take
a chair as easy as if they were your equals , and every ser-
vant-maid will be thinking she must have a silk gown like
her mistress. That’s what we shall get by our revolution.”

“But let us hope it will be all over-ruled for good,” said
Lady Lothrop.

“ Oh ! over-ruled , over-ruled ! ” said Miss Deborah. “ Of
course it will be over-ruled. Sodom and Gomorrah were
over-ruled for good , but ’t was a great deal better not to be
living there about those times.” Miss Debby’s voice had got

WE BEHOLD GRANDEUR.

351

upon so high a key, and her denunciations began to be so
terrifying, that the dear old lady interposed.

“Well, children, do let’s love one another, whatever we
do,” she said; “and, Debby, you mustn’t talk so hard about
Ellery,— he’s your cousin, you know.”

“Besides, my dear,” saidLady Widgery, “great allowances
should be made for his domestic misfortunes.”

“I don’t see why a man need turn infidel and rebel be-
cause his wife has turned out a madwoman,” said Miss
Debby; “what did he marry her for?”

*

“Oh my dear, it was a family arrangement to unite the
two properties,” said Lady Widgery. “ You see all the great
Pierre point estates came in through her, but then she was
quite shocking, — very peculiar always, but after her marriage
her temper was dreadful, — it made poor Ellery miserable, and
drove him from home ; it really was a mercy when it broke
out into real insanity, so that they could shut her up. I’ve
always had great tenderness for Ellery on that account.”

“Of course you have, because you’re a lady. Did I ever
know a lady yet that didn’t like Ellery Davenport, and wasn’t
ready to go to the stake for him? For my part I hate him,
because , after all , he humbugs me , and will make me like
him in spite of myself. I have to watch and pray against
him all the time.”

»

And as if, by the odd law of attraction which has given
birth to the proverb that somebody is always nearest when
you are talking about him , at this moment the dining-room
door was thrown open , and the old man-servant announced
“Colonel Ellery Davenport.”

“Colonel!” said Miss Debby, with a frown and an accent
of contempt, “How often must I tell Hawkins not to use

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

352

those titles of the old rebel mob army? Insubordination is
beginning to creep in, I can see.”

These words were lost in the bustle of the entrance of one
on whom, after listening to all the past conversation, we
children looked with very round eyes of attention. What we
saw was a tall, graceful young man, whose air and movements
gave a singular impression of both lightness and strength.
He earned his head on his shoulders with a jaunty, slightly
haughty air, like that of a thorough-bred young horse, and
there was quality and breeding in every movement of his
body. He was dressed in the imposing and picturesque
fashion of those times, with a slight military suggestion in its
arrangements. His hair was powdered to a dazzling white-
ness, and brushed off his low Greek forehead, and the powder
gave that peculiar effect to the eye and complexion which was
one of the most distinctive traits of that style of costume. His
eyes were of a deep violet blue, and of that lively, flashing
brilliancy which a painter could only represent by double
lights. They seemed to throw out light like diamonds. He
entered the room bowing and smiling with the gay good-
humour of one sure of pleasing. An inspiring sort of cheer-
fulness came in with him, that seemed to illuminate the room
like a whole stream of sunshine. In short, he fully justified
all Miss Deborah’s fears.

In a moment he had taken a rapid survey of the party; he
had kissed the hand of the dear old lady; he had com-
plimented Lady Widgery; he had inquired with effusion
after the health of Parson Lothrop , and ended all by an
adroit attempt to kiss Miss Deborah’s hand, which earned
him a smart little cuff from that wary belligerent.

“No rebels allowed on these premises,” said Miss Debby,
eententiously.

Digitized by Google

WE BEHOLD GRANDEUR.

353

“On my soul, cousin, you forget that peace has been de-
clared he said , throwing himself into a chair with a non-
chalant freedom.

“Peace! not in our house. I haven’t surrendered, if Lord
Cornwallis has,” said Miss Debby, “and I consider you as the
enemy.”

“Well, Debby, we must love our enemies,” said the old
lady, in a pleading tone.

“Certainly you must,” he replied quickly; “and here I’ve
come to Boston on purpose to go to church with you to-
morrow.”

“That’s right, my boy,” said the old lady. “I always
knew you’d come into right ways at last.”

“Oh, there are hopes of me, certainly,” he said; “if the
gentler sex will only remember their mission, and be guardian
angels, I think I shall be saved in the end.”

“You mean that you are going to wait on pretty Lizzie
Cabot to church to-morrow,” said Miss Debby; “that’s about
all the religion there is in it.”

“Mine is the religion of beauty, fair cousin,” said he. “If
I had had the honour of being one of the Apostles, I should
have put at least one article of that effect into our highly re-
spectable creed.”

»

“Ellery Davenport, you are a scoffer.”

“What, I? because I believe in the beautiful? What is
goodness but beauty? and what is sin but bad taste? I could
prove it to you out of my grandfather Edwards’s works,
passim , and I think nobody in New England would dispute
him.” !

“I don't know anything about him,” said Miss Debby,
with a toss. “He wasn’t in the Church.”

(Hdtown Folks . I.

23

354

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

“Mere matter of position , cousin. Couldn’t very well be
when the Church was a thousand miles across the water; but
he lived and died a stanch loyalist, — an aristocrat in the
very marrow of his bones , as anybody may see. The whole
of his system rests on the undisputed right of big folks to eat
up little folks in proportion to their bigness, and the Creator,
being biggest of all , is dispensed from all obligation to seek
anything but His own glory. Here you have the root-
doctrine of the divine right of kings and nobles , who have
only to follow their Maker’s example in their several spheres,
as his blessed Majesty King George has of late been doing
with his American colonies. If he had got the treatise on
true virtue by heart, he could not have carried out its prin-
ciples better.”

“Well, now, I never knew that there was so much good
in President Edwards before,” said Lady Widgery, with
simplicity. “I must get my maid to read me that treatise
iome time.”

“Do, madam,” said Ellery. “I think you will find it
exactly adapted to your habits of thought, and extremely
soothing.”

“ It will be a nice thing for her to read me to sleep with,”
said Lady Widgery, innocently.

“By all means,” said Ellery, with {in indescribable mock-
ing light in his great blue eyes.

For my own part, having that strange, vibrating suscepti-
bility of constitution which I have described as making me
peculiarly impressible by the moral sphere of others, I felt in
the presence of this man a singular and painful contest of
attraction and repulsion, such as one might imagine to be
produced by the near approach of some beautiful but dangerous
animal. His singular grace and brilliancy awoke in me au

Digitized by Google

WE BEHOLD GRANDEUR.

355

undefined antagonism akin to antipathy, and yet, as if under
some enchantment, I could not keep my eyes off from him,
and eagerly listened to everything that he had to say.

With that quick insight into human nature which enabled
him , as by a sort of instinct , to catch the reflex of every im-
pression which he made on any human being, he surveyed
the row of wide-open , wondering , admiring eyes , which fol-
lowed him at our end of the table.

“Aha! what have we here?” he said, as he advanced and
laid his hand on my head. I shuddered and shook it off with
a feeling of pain and dislike amounting to hatred.

“How now, my little man?” he said; “what’s the matter
here?” and then he turned to Tina. “Here’s a little lady
will be more gracious, I know,” and he stooped and at-
tempted to kiss her.

The little lady drew her head back and repulsed him with
the dignity of a young princess.

“Upon my word,” he said, “we learn the tricks of our
trade early, don’t we? Pardon me, petite mademoiselle,” he
said, as he retreated, laughing. “So you don’t like to be
kissed?”

“ Only by proper persons ,” said Tina , with that demure
gravity which she could at times so whimsically assume , but
sending with the words a long mischievous flash from under
her downcast eyelashes.

“ Upon my word, if there isn’t one that’s perfect in Mother
Eve’s catechism at an early age,” said Ellery Davenport.
“Young lady, I hope for a better acquaintance with you one
of these days.”

“Come, Ellery, let the child alone,” said Miss Debby;
“why should you be teaching all the girls to be forward? If
you notice her so much she will be vain.” ^

23 *

356

OLDTOWN FOLKS.

“That’s past praying for, anyhow,” said he, looking with
admiration at the dimpling, sparkling face of Tina, who
evidently was dying to answer him back. “Don’t you see
the monkey has her quiver full of arrows?” he said. “Do
let her try her infant hand on me.”

But Miss Debby, eminently proper, rose immediately, and
broke up the tea-table session by proposing adjournment to
the parlour.

After this we had family prayers , the maid-servants and
man-servant being called in and janged in decorous order on
a bench that stood prepared for exactly that occasion in a
corner of the room. Miss Deborah placed a stand, with a
great quarto edition of the Bible and pra} 7 er-book, before her
mother, and the old lady read in a trembling voice the psalm,
the epistle, and the gospel for Easter-evening, and then, all
kneeling, the evening prayers. The sound of her tremulous
voice, and the beauty of the prayers themselves, which I
vaguely felt, impressed me so much that I wept, without
knowing why, as one sometimes does at plaintive music.
One thing in particular filled me with a solemn surprise;
and that was the prayers , which I had never heard before,
for “The Royal Family of England.” The trembling voice
rose to fervent clearness on the words , u We beseech Thee,
with Thy favour, to behold our most Sovereign Lord, King
George, and so replenish him with the grace of Thy Holy
Spirit, that he may alway incline to Thy will, and walk in
Thy way. Endue him plenteously with heavenly gifts, grant
him in health and wealth long to live, strengthen him that
he may vanquish and overcome all his enemies, and finally
after this life may attain everlasting joy and felicity, through
Jesus Christ, our Lord.”

The loud “Amen” from Miss Debby which followed this,
heartily chorussed as it was by the well-taught man-servant

WE BEHOLD GRANDEUR.

357

and maid-servants, might have done any king’s heart good.
For my part, I was lost in astonishment; and when the
prayer followed “for the gracious Queen Charlotte, their
Koyal Highnesses, George, Prince of Wales, the Princess
Dowager of Wales, and all the Koyal Family,” my confusion
of mind was at its height. All these unknown personages
were to be endued with the Holy Spirit, enriched with
heavenly grace, and brought to an everlasting kingdom,
through Jesus Christ, our Lord. 1 must confess that all I
had heard of them previously, in my education, had not pre-
pared me to see the propriety of any peculiar celestial
arrangements in their favour; but the sweet and solemn awe
inspired by the trembling voice which pleaded went a long
way towards making me feel as if there must have been a
great mistake in my bringing up hitherto.

When the circle rose from their knees, Ellery Davenport
said to Miss Debby, “ It’s a pity the king of England couldn't
know what stanch supporters he has in Boston.”

*• r

“I don’t see,” said the old lady, “why they won’t let us
have that prayer read in churches now; it can’t do any
harm.”

“I don’t, either,” said Ellery. “For my part, I don’t
know any one who needs praying for more than the King of
England; but the prayers of the Church don’t appear to have
been answered in his case. If he had been in the slightest
degree ‘endowed with heavenly gifts,’ he needn’t have lost
these American colonies.”

“Come, Ellery, none of your profane talk,” said Miss
Debby; “ you don’t believe in anything good.”

“On the contrary, I always insist on seeing the good be-
fore I believe; I should believe in prayer, if I saw any good
come from it.”

358 OLDTOWN FOLKS.

t

“ For shame , Ellery, when children are listening to you ! ”
said Miss Debby. “But come, my little folks,” she added,
rising briskly, “it’s time for these little eyes to be shut.”

The dear old lady called us all to her, and kissed us
“good night,” laying her hand gently on our heads as she
did so. I felt the peaceful influence of that hand go through
me like music, and its benediction even in my dreams.

m ?oo

PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER.

Digitized by Google

Digitized by Google

» . \vj\i

•S ' Vi? <S

Tr 5

* * ,.» r

* -* • * - ft

f , r’ftr*’ £*<£ .

*•££

. *, „_.• — I ■

■

igz.jt

igfe am , v .. .•

J> . - « <• ■*- ♦ ft.. k 1 * •

' A •- ■ % JL* .* ^ A

. •

| r

wi - < * • > j ■. >

•• • $&£< >

i . cy

#\ „» v

» • -

.

+*^JCA^iAis V

5 r * i ]r v* . KS(^ >;•. > . - *£* ,4

V ,T' / ‘ *rf

-.a